


A Muted Hue of Grey

by swanandapirate



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Captain Swan Big Bang 2018, Deception, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mild Smut, Minor Violence, Slow Burn, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-07-17 20:43:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 61,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16103444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanandapirate/pseuds/swanandapirate
Summary: Emma Swan liked being a PI in Boston. It was a fun job, she had an okay income and she was a good one at that, so there was no logical reason to try and leave. Except for the fact that she wanted to, so badly. And, when she received a job offer for what seemed to be the opportunity of a lifetime, she did exactly that. Leave. Run. All the way to London. The job was simple: trailing a man called Killian Jones. Easy enough.Well, until things get complicated, that is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pheeewww it's finally here! Over a year ago, I came up with yet another prompt that I thought I was never going to write and then had the crazy idea to write it as a part of @captainswanbigbang which was one of the best decisions I’ve made in a long time. I've been working on this story for months and at last, it is done and ready to be posted. This has been a 61K labor of love with a couple of obstacles along the road (I’m looking at you, uni). I owe major gratitude to my betas and superheroes @acourtoftruelove and @ofshipsandswans for sometimes yelling at me, often correcting me, and always squealing along with me. I couldn't have done this without them.
> 
> And check out the banner and picset on Tumblr by the lovely @shady-swan-jones who gave this fic the perfect art to go along with it.
> 
> So, without further ado: A Muted Hue of Grey.

God, why were there so many people?

She thought Boston was bad but London was, quite frankly, ten times worse. She had to keep her lips pursed together to keep from grunting and swearing every two seconds. Tourists here, street vendors there. Cyclists who ran a red light, almost plowing her over when she had every right to cross as the green stick figure had given her permission. The city had its charm, of course, but not when she needed to focus and could not be distracted by a girl taking a selfie in the middle of the road while blocking every other person walking there. Emma had a mission and she couldn’t fuck it up.

Avoiding eye contact with the pubescent-looking guy, clipboard in hand and a bright raincoat with a logo of some non-profit organization branded on his back, she continued on. It had to be far from an enjoyable job, standing outside, braving the cold and the rain only to be turned down time after time. Emma did feel sorry for the teenagers. She wasn’t against supporting animals or the environment, far from it actually, but more often than not the “have you heard about this cause” talk generated a nuisance that could only be avoided by lowering her gaze and crossing the road. There was no time to politely listen to them rattle their practiced speech only to politely decline with the answer that she would think about it. Especially now.

Sounds of a busker infiltrated the buzz of the people around her, of all those conversations held between the commuters or across the phone. The chords played on the battered guitar were familiar, ones she’d definitely heard before, and when the words joined the rest of the music, Emma shook her head with a trace of a smile appearing, feeling foolish that she didn’t figure it out earlier. Wonderwall, of course.

While the street musicians lacked originality vis-a-vis their choice of music (John Lennon, Oasis, Goo Goo Dolls, Radiohead; she’d heard it all a thousand times), most of them did possess a lot of talent. Emma halted more often than not—when she wasn’t in a hurry—to listen to their rendition of some cliché song, giving them whatever spare change she had in her purse or pocket and in return being thanked with a smile.

Honestly, London wasn’t all that bad. Her apartment was shit, yes; there was no point in attempting to gloss over that. It was impossible to hide the mold stains and pretend the ice water squirting out of the defect shower was pleasant and warm. Although her landlord was of that opinion somehow; anything to get him out of spending time and effort to fix some bothersome issues he’d rather ignore. The jackass.

She didn’t have any friends after moving here, yes, that was true too. But she could handle being alone, she was quite experienced with loneliness and independence, had learned to be resourceful and creative every time she lacked an extra pair of hands, an additional set of eyes or simply some new company.

The city wasn’t all that great either, but Emma could think of worse places to be. New York, for one, where the large crowds only resulted in chaos; a heavily-polluted, siren-screeching mess. London, however, seemed more structured to Emma. The perfect place to be undercover, to blend into the masses and only reappear when she felt like it all the while still retaining a sense of overview. And for what her job consisted of, that trait was necessary and ideal. 

It had taken a while to grow accustomed to the British manners, the overabundance of pet names (she had to keep herself from answering “I’m not your love” everytime she got called some sort of variation), to everything basically. From the way they ordered food to the way their traffic was directed—god, she’s never been so afraid for people riding a bike as she was for the cyclists risking their lives between the swerving and honking cars. 

It had been a struggle to not be the _American_ amongst Brits and to not ooze her Americanness in the way she moved and the way she looked. It had taken a combination of observing and adapting, but now, Emma was sure she appeared as any other London goer. One last disclosure was the moment she would open her mouth and began talking in an accent that could not be interpreted as anything _but_ American. Luckily for her, however, she was never the socializing type so she was able to restrict unnecessary communication to a minimum. Yay for being a loner. 

She scanned the crowded bridge before her again, adjusting the camera around her neck. Its synthetic band was uncomfortably chafing against the skin of her neck, turning it raw and itchy. In a soothing manner, her hand massaged the dry patch of skin, but to no avail. She had to stop thinking about it, the irritation would only get worse.

A distraction presented itself and Emma let out a relieved sigh when she obtained a visual confirmation that the selfie-taking girl had not ruined everything. It had taken her more than a week to figure the whole situation out, to know where she should be and at what time. The shortcuts she was supposed to take were etched into her mind, a detailed treasure map with a moving X. Left here, two blocks ahead another left, she could almost do it with her eyes closed—if it weren’t for the other people.

 If anyone ever asked her what her dream job was, her answer wouldn’t be traipsing around London by foot, but she’d made the choice for this profession a long time ago—after she’d been beaten up as a bail bonds person far too often—and it had stuck. She was good at what she did and after a couple of jobs, her reputation began to precede her. Offers came from left and right, giving her a wide array of choices and letting her be picky, a luxury she could not afford when she was younger. It helped her to be able to fly to another continent and pay way too much for her shit apartment.

The move here was a bit radical, almost crazy, but she’d been asked and she was never one to pass up on a good work opportunity. Her ties back in America weren’t deeply rooted. They could easily be yanked out to start afresh and even though she’d had some mournful and aghast responses to her news, all of her friends knew her enough to have prepared for this situation. They had always kept an eye open for the impending moment, the sudden flash when Emma would get sick of the suburban life and would want a whole one-eighty. The whole picket fence life… well, she wasn’t there yet and doubted she ever would.

She’d come back eventually; this job wasn’t going to take years of her life, but there was no haste either. She would return home with a new experience and some new stories under her belt. No new friends; Emma wasn’t idealistic enough to expect herself to suddenly gain friends. Nor was she social enough; the only things she did were work and return home.

Every day, she took the same route, she visited the same places. The coffee shop across the street that had the surly-looking barista but had the best price-quality ratio. The laundromat two blocks over that didn’t communicate their closing hours clearly enough and had automatically locked Emma inside when she’d noticed at 9.49 pm that she had no clean underwear anymore. The night shop that provided Emma with midnight snacks and drinks and its joyful owner who always gave her a discount. Places with people, but none she spoke more words than _hello, bye_ and _thank you_ to.

It had taken her years to gather and open up to the people she frequently came across back in Boston: the girl with the pixie cut who lived in 2A, her sandy-haired boyfriend, the owner of the diner Emma ate at every Monday morning, the martial arts coach at the gym she used to work out at until she was sweaty and exhausted. Years of coaxing on their part, asking her in the hallway, in the locker room, mid-breakfast to hang out, only to be met by her immediate refusal. Years of learning to trust.

Honestly, she was grateful they never stopped trying, never let being cast off by the solid brick walls surrounding her deter them. They saw something in her—Zeus knows what exactly that was—and wanted to include her, let her enter their little but tight-knit circle of people when they barely knew her. Their only reasoning was that “she looked like she could use some company”, a direct quote from the circle’s mother, Mary Margaret, also known as 2A’s pixie cut.

Emma subtly curled her lips and closed her eyes as she thought back to the people back home, momentarily basking in the warm feeling that settled inside of her. But this wasn’t the time to be sentimental, she could save that for another time, one where she was preferably alone and not working. She continued to maneuver around, opening and lifting her eyes to gain sight of her target anew. The mop of black hair was about 20 yards in front of her, still moving at a steady pace.

She lifted the camera with care to avoid hurting her already damaged skin even more and held it before her face. Closing her left eye to exclude any form of distraction, her right focused on the tiny image before her. The image was still blurry and after a couple of heartbeats, it became clear, the perfect quality for Emma to press the button. The shutter clicked fast, a set of successive images following quickly, flashing along.

After a quick check of her material and a nod, showing her satisfaction with the results, she let the camera drop again, the device bumping against her stomach a couple of times before steadying and adjusting to her fast steps. He was moving fast so she had to as well.

There were white earbuds dangling from his ears, his head softly bobbing along to the beat of the song reverberating in his ears. He was entranced in his own little world, with a personal soundtrack to which he moved and acted and that drowned out the bustle of the city. 

She was curious about what he was listening to, what music was worthy of the honor of being added to his playlist and blasted into his ears every morning. Was he a rock listener? Classical music connoisseur? Did he have a penchant for sappy love songs à la Ed Sheeran that he would then emotionally sing along to? Was he as original in creating his playlists as the buskers that were scattered in subway stations and on street corners? Emma supposed it wouldn’t take her too long to figure it out, to figure _him_ out, all the way to the final details of his being and character.

For not being a people person, she prided herself on being able to read people quite well.

The spring sun shone brightly and without encumbrance, hitting her skin directly and causing small beads of sweat to gather at her temples and a thin layer on her upper lip, which Emma rapidly wiped away. The clothes she was wearing—a thick woolen sweater and jeans—were unfit for this weather. It was as though it were the heart of August and not the blossoming beginning of April in a country where winter had only just ceded its powers. Emma wished—fervently—she had known that this morning. She also wished she had thought about layers. Their power could not be underestimated. They were the way of life here.

But the white fabric stuck to her skin, the sweat not helping at all, and slowed her movements down as she attempted to quicken her pace. She was losing track of the nape, the mess of hair she was pursuing. The stress found its way to her head, making Emma’s heart pick up pace as well. Her steps quickened on the concrete, the _tap tap_  occasionally interrupted by a rasp of shoes on the underground when she turned a sharp corner and braked. Her steady breathing was turning into a pant, proving to Emma it was definitely time to renew her gym membership. Being a PI might be less physical and consist of less running, fighting, avoiding danger etc. than a bail bonds person's curriculum but that did not mean she was allowed to slouch. Not if she was doing this. 

She squeezed herself between a group of tourists, much to the dismay of said tourists who indignantly addressed her in Spanish. Not that she would understand what words they were using in their complaints, her high school Spanish had withered to a dead plant after not being watered and nourished for years. Emma hastened to reach the leader, using the woman’s Spanish flag as a guide to reach the end of the troop and to be able to pass her. With her camera clutched tightly, held close to not bestow any additional hindrance, she zigzagged, ducking and swerving as she seemed fit. After a minute or so—though it felt like a lifetime—she re-emerged from the group, some more Spanish thrown her way, frantically looking for him.

Shit, where did he go?

While before it was like a ray of light lit him up, pointing out where he walked in the crowd, now there was only darkness. An unlit maze without any sort of red thread, a challenge she had no idea how to tackle. The metaphorical target on his back had vanished. Hundreds of dark-haired people, dozens of earbuds, not the one Emma needed.

She needed _him_ , with his leather bag, the pirate necklace around his neck, the tattoo on his right upper arm, with those elven ears Emma was so fascinated by but would never admit to anyone that she was.

What was he doing?

Right, three streets, right again, left until the lights.

That was what the GPS embedded into her brain told her was his route; that was what he always did on Saturday afternoon.

So why wasn’t he standing before the red glowing traffic light?

He had a routine he followed almost meticulously. A creature of extreme habit, that was what he was. Emma had to buy herself a watch to be able to know what time it was at every second and not have to bother with retrieving her phone from her pocket every time, losing precious seconds. She used the simple watch on her wrist to follow his movements, needed it on every occasion. There were not a lot of people she had met before who were this exact, who left their apartment when the clock stroke precisely eight, who re-entered their apartment at 17:23 time and time again, regardless of the weather, day or season.

This was not like him.

Emma peered over her shoulder as she took a right, the sudden movement making her hair whip, attempting to look through the masses to double check if he surely hadn’t taken the left turn like usual, but there was no trace of him. Or his unique ears.

Right as she turned her head back, in what felt like a blink of an eye, there was something right in front of her. Someone. Emma attempted to decelerate and stop but the distance was too small to do so, her body still in motion. She braced for the shock, the crash of two moving objects together, her body meeting another solid mass and flinched to prepare for the pain to hit her but there were two hands that softened the blow, that settled on both of her upper arms, one warm and one cold.

Emma didn’t dare to open her eyes, eyelids still squeezed shut. Until the someone she almost hit, but didn’t because _they_ were paying attention while she was focused on other things, cleared their throat, an attempt to capture Emma’s attention and most likely to prompt her to open her eyes again instead of standing there like a scared little child.

Biting the inside of her lip, Emma slowly peeled her eyes open, letting them first adjust to the light again and then scan her direct surroundings. She was staring at a chest. A man’s chest. There were earbuds dangling from his grey Henley, a trace of chest hair peeking out the top and a silver chain around his neck. An odd feeling of apprehension plagued her, heartbeat lodged in her throat, as her eyes hesitantly traveled upwards, in search of a face, of some point of recognition who this mysterious stranger-slash-savior was.

Blue eyes stared into hers.

Familiar blue eyes.

“Can I help you, lass?” he asked and while this was the first time she had heard him speak, the cadence, the accent, the voice— _his_ voice—felt familiar. As if she’d spent hours upon hours listening to it, talking to him. She could almost imagine how his voice would sound in a laugh, how it would change when he was tired, the accent thick and present, how it would caress in a whisper.

It felt as if she knew him.

Which she did.

But also didn’t.

Because this was Killian Jones.

The man she was hired to spy on.

The man who was holding her and staring at her with expectant eyes.

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two to finally answer those questions of how Emma is going to handle this very inconvenient situation. 
> 
> Eternal gratitude to my two favorite internet people in the world: my betas @acourtoftruelove and @ofshipsandswans who turned this jumble of sometimes incoherent words into an actual fic. 
> 
> Also major thanks to @shady-swan-jones for her banner and all of the cool art that she is posting and will post

Shit, shit, shit.

There went her cover.

Way to go. She definitely deserved the Private Investigator of the Year award. Stellar work.

Emma opened her mouth and filled her chest with air, only to release it again without an answer.

_“Can I help you, lass?”_

The question still hung in the air. What should she—could she—even answer?

Jones lowered his eyebrows, not content with the lack of response, of explanation.

The heat of his hand on her felt like it was two hundred degrees, his touch burning through her clothes and onto her skin. It was almost painful for how long it remained there, not moving, not leaving, just comfortably—for him at least—wrapped around her upper arm.

Emma shook her head, trying to shake the feeling of fumbling clumsiness. She smiled, flashing her teeth. “I’m sorry for bumping into you. I don’t know where my head is today.”

He tilted his head and Emma internally berated herself for not being more convincing. For not being more prepared. He was not buying it and that put her in big trouble.

His head remained cocked, his messy eyebrows moving into a frown.

“You’ve been walking behind me for a while, I feel.”

She needed to get out of here, to run as fast and as far as she could. But his hands were still on her, locking her into place, preventing her from dashing away. Running would also completely blow her cover; if he saw her following him again, his suspicion would not only grow but be confirmed and she’d be compromised. How on earth was she going to explain that to her boss?

It was out of the question, for both her own pride and reputation, and for the clause she’d signed as part of her contract. There was no room for failure, only for success, which left one option.

She had to lie. Had no other choice than to think of a plausible cover that would explain it all and maybe take Jones’ wary look away. But what would do the trick?

“I’m sorry?” she said, apologizing for the second time in the span of a minute. Emma grimaced as she realized that too. “It’s just that— I—”  _Anything, just think of anything._ “I have this feeling like I know you and I know that doesn’t condone the stalking but I was trying to figure out why I’m having this feeling. You aren’t a movie star, are you? A famous rock star?”

She was about to continue her list of possible—very impossible—professions he could have but it seemed the two options she’d given him had done their job.

He looked at her dazed.

“I’m guessing that’s a no. I don’t know where I could know you from, if that’s the case. I mean, this is my first time in London and I doubt you spent a lot of time in Boston.”

_Take the bait, take the bait._

“I did actually.” Every word came out more surprised than the last. Jones seemed surprised himself. If only he knew.

She was acting and it felt like the fakest thing ever, it felt like she was being obvious, like the over-expressive, melodramatic actors in daytime soaps the moment they discovered their wife had had an affair with their twin brother and she was now pregnant with no idea who the real father was.  _Shocked_.

“What?”

He interpreted the question wrong and completed his own statement.

“Spend a lot of time in Boston.”

“You did? Really?”

Of course, she knew this. She’d memorized his biography, up to every trivial fact like which Bostonian coffeehouse he frequented and what his order consisted of. She even knew where he lived. Close to where she used to. An odd thing their paths never crossed.

“Aye.” Killian slowly nodded. “I lived in Boston up until last year. I moved back a couple of months ago.”

“Huh.” She let her lips form a smile that read something in the lines of  _this person is currently pleasantly surprised._ “Guess it’s not  _that_ far-fetched I actually know you from somewhere.”

“I suppose not,” he was forced to agree. “But you don’t seem familiar, if I’m being entirely honest,” he then said apologetically, his lips somewhere between a grimace and a smile.

“I don’t really try to stand out.”

She didn’t like to stand out because it made her job easier, a shadow in the night, a flash of movement during the day; it left her subject unsuspecting, unguarded and it was the easiest way to gain information and to get the job done. She didn’t like to stand out because that’s what led to problems back in the foster system. Standing out led to being singled out, being ostracized from the group. It led to bigger kids stealing her dinner, taking away the few dollar bills she managed to save. In short, it led to heartbreak and hurt. Laying low was a tactic, something ingrained into her being, perhaps that’s why she excelled at doing what she did. Maybe that was why she spent most of her life alone. Not lonely, per se, but  _alone_ **.**

And it was finally something that did not taste bitter in her mouth, that resembled the actual truth. This lying to his face, after the short amount of time she’d done it, was a whole different thing from spying on him from afar. She signed up for the latter, the former wasn’t how she liked to do things, how she liked to handle her work.

Jones’ eyes reflected the rays of light emitted by the sun, flecks of grey standing out in the sea of blue.

In an instant, a moment as fast as a fingersnap, she became aware of their unfortunate placement; it was as badly chosen as the place the tween had picked out to take her selfie earlier. The irritation Emma had then experienced was now endured by other people. People were trying to pass but they could not because of the blockage the two of them were creating. Jones seemed to come to the same realization as he apologetically smiled at some angry-looking people, his right hand delving into his hair to scratch the back of his scalp. Emma mentally added it to her list of information. Killian Jones had a tic, a tic which was quite adorable. She wouldn’t add that last bit to her folder, though.

They looked at each other and the clumsiness of the people swerving left and right, the slight embarrassment due to the angry glares caused them both to hesitantly snicker, a connection forming through the shared amusement.

With resolution and completely in sync, they stepped out of the way, much to the content of the passersby. As soon as they did, the cacophony of the city fell away; only a subdued buzz remained as they fled away towards a small alcove of sorts. It wasn’t more than a glorified dirty corner hidden from view, graffiti sprayed on the otherwise grimy walls, puddles of suspicious substances covering the ground. Not that she was paying attention to those, Killian wasn’t either.

They were only watching each other in almost silence.

It brought a kind of intimacy, let the calm slowly descend onto the two of them. Two new lovers might search it, two experienced ones might treasure it, but Emma and Killian were neither. Far from it even.

They barely knew each other.

He barely knew her, they hadn’t even talked for more than a minute.

So the intimacy was odd. Unsought.

“This is going to sound a bit forward of me,” Killian finally broke the silence, “but would you like to continue this conversation in a place that’s slightly more suitable and reeks slightly less of piss?”

There was no other acceptable answer but yes. Declining would mean she’d rather stay in a shady alley than go somewhere with him. Even though she didn’t really owe him anything and she had every right to say no, it was quite an offensive thing to say. And nothing in his conduct or words had warranted such an insult.

“Yes. To the ‘no piss’ thing,” she specified after a beat.

It may have sounded as a joke, a jest to add amusement but in reality, to Emma there was nothing humorous about it. It was Emma trying to backtrack, recede to a place where it was safe and where she could blend into the shadows again.

Killian perceived it as a joke. He rumbled a laugh before looking over his shoulder, scanning the street for any oncoming groups of tourists or traffic, and, after the briefest brush of his fingers against the edge of her hand, he led the way.

It was accidental, nothing more.

It was just to signal that he was leaving, nothing more.

All things she told herself but failed to convince her, did not manage to omit the tingle in her flesh his touch had generated.

There was no use to think about the reasons behind his actions. She didn’t need to think about it, all she needed to do was follow him, continue and maintain a shallow conversation, end it with a friendly smile and an insincere “I hope we see each other again”, and disappear; never to be seen again, never to encounter each other again. It would require a moment to collect her thoughts and strategize, come up with a new tactic to bring this assignment to a fruitful end but those were worries for later.

The thing she needed to worry about now was how to converse with someone she already knew everything about, someone who wasn’t allowed to know anything about her. It didn’t exactly leave a lot of room for a topic of conversation.

Lost in her own thoughts searching for a subject other than how hot the weather was today, she was too busy to pay attention to her surroundings or Jones. Emma’s absent-mindedness resulted in her not seeing he had stopped moving in front of her and almost running into him again. Jeez, a second time would not only be embarrassing but also a testimony of pure clumsiness.

And she didn’t require any additional unnecessary touches and even more tension, she’d had quite enough of that for one day.

He didn’t speak or explain the sudden emergency brake situation that had just taken place, but twisted to face her. He stared at her. Only stared, his gaze scanning her face. It felt like a judgment, as if he was trying to figure out something but Emma hadn’t the slightest idea what that might be.

“What?” she eventually settled for plain out asking, her curiosity and impatience getting the better of her.

It jostled Jones back to reality, his eyelids moving to blink away the hitch.

“Killian,” he said. “That’s my name.” His head softly shook. “I realized I hadn’t introduced myself yet.”

“Oh!” Yeah, she hadn’t thought about asking his name because she already knew. “Nice to meet you.” Lifting her hand, she extended it towards him but as she did, the urge to retract came instantaneously. What if the feeling she’d tried to shake off earlier returned? This time, she couldn’t hold static energy accountable or pretend it was just an itch. It was too late, however, as Killian’s hand enveloped hers, a flood of warmth following.

She could attribute that to body heat, she supposed.

“I’m Emma.”

She stopped there to retain a kind of simplicity, of mystery. It was better for him not to know a lot about her, but Killian thought differently as he raised his eyebrow and nodded at her to continue.                                                                 

“Emma Swan,” she completed begrudgingly.

The name—her name—brought a smile upon his face and Emma wanted to ask why, wanted to smile along before she remembered. No attachments.

“Swan?” he questioned. “Really?

An affirmative nod.

“What’s yours?” she asked, perfectly aware of how she shouldn’t already know it. But it was the normal thing to do when two strangers met for the first time.

“Jones,” he replied. “Couldn’t be more generic than that. Although, I could be named Killian Smith, but that wouldn’t ring quite as good, I think.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“Killian Jones _is_ a good name.”

“So is Emma Swan.”

“Thank you.”

They began walking again, a slow pace and now next to each other instead of Emma letting him leading the way.

“I once knew a chap called BJ Dickerson, that wasn’t a good name.”

“No way,” she said in disbelief and when Killian nodded, she frowned. “Whatever his initials stood for, it could not have been worse than BJ Dickerson.”

“I beg to differ,” he said, trying to suppress his smile. “His parents called him Bachelor-Januarius. He wasn’t even born in January. I don’t think his parents were too fond of him, poor lad.”

Emma couldn’t help herself as she burst into laughter, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. Killian stopped attempting to not laugh, his chuckle joining her giggle, the two sounds blending perfectly. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, she wiped them away with the pad of her thumb as she tried to compose herself and catch her breath.

Once she did and once they focused on walking again instead of laughing, she came to the pathetic conclusion that this was the first time she’d laughed—really genuinely laughed without any inhibitions—in quite some time. Long enough for her not to remember when or where or why. She should’ve expected that to happen seeing that she left all her friends back in the States.

Coming to a halt before a  _Pret A Manger_ establishment, Killian gestured with his head to propose entering to which Emma agreed. It was the afternoon, the peak hours of coffee-craving businessmen and women already gone so they were able to sit in a relatively calm environment. A young man greeted them and they both smiled in return.

The table they chose to sit at carried remnants of its previous occupants, some drops and crumbs scattered across its surface. Before sitting down, Killian reached for the napkin dispenser, grabbing two and swiping them across the table, getting rid of the traces and clearing it for them. His prosthetic motioned towards the chair opposite of him, inviting her to take a seat. Before he did too, he searched for a trashcan and disposed of the napkins.

It gave her some time to prepare, to take a calming breath and wipe her sweaty palms across her jeans as she went over the battle strategy again. It was one she was familiar with but it had been some time since she had utilized it, since she needed to. This resembled one of her bailbonds dates. The ones where she had to drag her words through a process of hemming and hawing, giving an altered, watered-down version of the truth while keeping it believable. The purpose now, however, wasn’t to expose the target but to prevent herself from being outed by them.

“Would you like something?” Killian asked with a friendly smile when he returned.

“Umm,” she thought for a second before answering, “A hot chocolate would be fine.”

“Great, I’ll be right back,” he told her.

Another big difference with her past as a bail bondsperson; back then she acted as seductive as possible, bending her body the right way to sit and show off some cleavage, watching her date the right way by batting her eyelashes, pretending to get tipsy after two glasses of red wine (her alcohol tolerance was better than that). But nothing like that now, a hot chocolate was as far from being seductive as it could be.

When the steaming cups—hers the aforementioned hot chocolate, and his a plain cup of coffee—were placed on their table, Emma wondered for a moment why exactly she chose a warm beverage when it was sweltering hot outside. But she had never been the healthy juice cleanse kind of girl and, once she took a hesitant sip and the chocolaty taste coated her tongue, she forgot all about the outside temperatures and could only think of her tastebuds reveling in the taste. It was okay at best but she couldn’t remember the last time she had taken the time to enjoy some.

God, why was she getting emotional about a cup of mediocre hot chocolate.

Killian drank from his cup as well, flinching. It would appear his cup was mediocre at best too. He grabbed the container of sugar that stood on the table and poured some into the black liquid.

“So what did you do back in Boston, if you don’t mind me asking?” Emma asked, the comfortable silence not sitting well with her. It was too comfortable when it should be anything but.

He looked up from his cup of coffee, his expression open and kind, before he answered, “I did technical writing for an engineering firm.”

“Sounds interesting.”

He took a sip, the sugar clearly helping, before he shook his head with a tiny smile.

“It wasn’t,” Killian said, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “I quit. I got sick of it all and I needed something new.”

An idea formed in Emma’s thoughts, a lightbulb in the center of her mind that gradually became brighter and brighter until it glowed ever so powerful and made everything so clear. How to respond, what to say, how to proceed.

“What company did you work for?”

She just met the man, some curiosity was allowed, was even expected. Conveniently, that granted her the opportunity to steer the conversation to where she wanted it to go, to subtly guide Killian to a place where her act was believable and unsuspicious. Innocent.

Emma let her head rest on her hand, her chin propped up on her palm and her fingers spreading across the apple of her cheek.

“It was called Spencer Mechanics,” Killian answered.

“Really?” Her eyebrows rose. “I think I just figured out why you seem so familiar.”

Well, she just came up with a story to explain why he seemed so familiar, but semantics. More or less.

“You have? Do share,” he encouraged, slightly leaning closer in intrigue.

“A friend of mine once had a shitty temp job there and I came to her rescue with lunch sometimes. I probably saw you in passing a couple of times. I have a weird memory like that. Don’t ask me what I ate for lunch two days ago, but faces often stick.”

She could see him considering it—her story—for a moment, most likely wondering if it wasn’t too much of a coincidence, but dismissed the matter after having thought about it for a moment of silence.

“I apologize for not remembering yours,” he spoke again. “It’s a face worth remembering.”

Emma suddenly wished she hadn’t ordered a hot beverage but a cool one instead so she could cool her body down, rub the cold condensation against her heated, red cheeks. Why is she getting so flustered over small things and comments? Jesus. She had been flirted with before, so why was Jones different?

The answer wasn’t difficult to find, all she had to do was look up and there it was, visible in the way his eyes exuded sincerity and authenticity and the small smile that followed, as if the comments weren’t made to get something but simply to tell her, to make her aware of how things were from his point of view. A genuine compliment without any ulterior motives. She had to admit that had been rare in her previous experiences.

She didn’t want to be flustered, but she definitely was right this minute and Killian saw it too, a little cocky smirk appearing on his lips and then immediately disappearing again as he widened the distance between them again by leaning against the back of his chair.

“Do you like living in London?”

“I’d say so. Moving here was pretty hectic, however, I’ve been here barely three weeks and there are so many things to take care of.”

Rent, for one; money, her dollars wouldn’t get her far here; transport, she felt the loss of her beloved bug.

“It’s a big transition, isn’t it?” He nodded sympathetically. “I’m from here and it was still quite an adjustment for me.”

“Did you live in the States for long?” she asked before drinking the last of her beverage and placing the cup back on the table.

Seven years.

“About seven years,” he confirmed her information.

“That  _is_ a long time.” Her eyebrows shot upwards in something fluctuating between agreement and appreciation.

Killian shrugged before shifting the focus back onto Emma. “How long are you in London for?”

“A couple of months. It all depends on how much my boss likes the work I do.” That was true, Jones just didn’t need to know what exactly it was she did.

“What do you do?”

She should’ve seen that one coming, fuck.

“Oh, I don’t want to bore you with it.”

She waved it away, a fearful smile appearing on her face. It wasn’t more than a slight arch to hide the way she was clenching her jaw.

“You wouldn’t,” he assured her, lowering his head to meet her eyes, a sign he was a good listener, a kind one at that. For once, she wished her date—he wasn’t that but for lack of a better term he was—would only think about himself, talk about himself without asking about her, self-centered and selfish. Killian wasn’t, however. “I’m interested.”

Which was what she needed least, interest. In her and what she did.

“I’m um… what you would call a bail bonds person.”

Killian blinked and shook his head simultaneously, both obvious signs of how he was taken aback by her profession—even though it was her previous one and not her current, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Really?” he asked, yet again confirming his surprise.

Emma couldn’t help that her answer sounded just that little bit prickly. “You sound surprised.”

Her prickliness was justified, though. Because it was getting tedious and monotonous, the misogynistic air that hung around the  _oh’s_ and  _really’s_ and the  _you must be joking’s._

Because everyone sounded surprised. Men especially. They thought women weren’t powerful enough, were too emotional to succeed. It was why she was a bailbonds _person_ and not man. She was a woman. And a damn powerful one.

“Only because I’ve never met a bail bonds person before. How on earth could that ever bore me?”

“It all sounds really exciting but in the end it’s more paperwork and boring stake outs than anything else.”

She toyed with the empty cardboard cup of her hot chocolate, her fingernail denting the ridge before letting her hand compress it, until the cup was completely flat.

His eyes fell on the camera now safely stored in its bag and hung across the chair Emma sat on.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt you during one.” His features turned worrisome.

“You didn’t,” she reassured.

Lie.

“I was simply exploring a bit.”

Lie.

“I haven’t had the time yet.”

Truth.

“You’d never come to London before moving here?”

“No,” she admitted, shaking her head. “Sometimes it feels like I have absolutely no idea where I’m going. I’m just following the masses.”

Emma assumed that they knew where they were going—at least vaguely. She just let the stream carry her, calmly floating along and she’d see where she would end up. Killian, however, clearly disagreed.

“You shouldn’t! London is better than the masses make it out to be.”

“If you feel inclined to be my personal tour guide, feel free to,” Emma joked.

“Well, there’s an idea.” Killian smirked.

“I was joking,” she explained, the panic rising inside. She was already regretting her words. Why did she have to say that and give him ideas? “I don’t want to claim any more of your time.”

“It’s fine,” he reassured and Emma wished he didn’t. “I was going to go to the library but I wouldn’t mind taking a stroll about the town.”

A creature of extreme habit and he was altering his routine. Changing something almost set in stone. For her.

She didn’t want to think about what that meant.

They stood up, their chairs scraping against the floor. Killian took Emma’s crushed cup and his own, still in its original state, and threw them into the trash. She smiled to thank him while attempting to get that lightbulb in her head to work again, for it to provide another story she could use to her advantage and get out of this situation. But it stayed completely dark and so she followed him outside.

“Welcome to the real London, Emma Swan.”

In the masses of the crowd, they disappeared together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I actually know someone who is called Januarius and he wasn’t born in January either. I hope you liked it! See you next Thursday!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: No Killian in this chapter, my apologies, but there are answers to your questions and there's an OC whom I love a lot and I hope you do too.
> 
> The Big P ( @ofshipsandswans ) and Notorious Nonnie ( @acourtoftruelove ) are epic as always and weren't afraid to go "uhhh Manon??" whenever I did or wrote stupid stuff.
> 
> @shady-swan-jones is also epic and never complained when I stalked her about the art she was making, you can find said art on Tumblr!

 

A dense downpour covered the streets, distorting the view, a thin sheet of water blurring her sight. Emma walked, all of her senses heightened—her ears searching for any sound that didn’t belong. She did not trust the dark that enclosed her, nor was she pleased with the curtain of rain. She was at a disadvantage and she knew it, knew that this was exactly why he had waited before informing her where their meeting would take place. Why he chose for it to be this late. He wanted the upper hand and Emma couldn’t do anything but to hand it to him. She was but an employee, a hired informant that could be laid off at any moment. 

The rain was just a welcome bonus, she supposed as she trudged on, avoiding puddles that had gathered; he was powerful but controlling the weather required some magic that he, a mere mortal, did not possess.

The cobblestones of the alley shone with a layer of rain, the water enhancing the sound of her high boots echoing against the stone. Emma was already regretting her choice of footwear. It was drawing attention to her, attention that might not be wanted.

She checked her phone for the umpteenth time since she had left to be certain and it gave her the confirmation she sought. This was it, it told her, the brightness of her screen causing her to squint against the artificial light. She had reached her destination.

And she was all alone.

That didn’t seem right.

Her eyes slid across her surroundings, searching for a sign of life, a clue that someone else was present, but found none.

“So, Ms. Swan.”

Emma was startled by the voice surfacing out of the shadows. And the man accompanying it.

“What have you found out?” Mr. Gold asked.

He appeared from whatever hole he was hiding, dressed to the nines in a suit that seemed badly tailored, tatty even, loose at some parts and way too tight at others. A golden cane in his hand, only emphasizing his stature and oddity. Who owned a cane? A golden one at that? His brown hair, streaked with grey, was long and stuck to his cheeks thanks to the rain.

“Okay, first of all, Gold,” Emma responded, not wanting to immediately hand him her information, her only assets. “Why are we meeting in some shady alley? It reeks here.”

And it did. Of pee and other questionable substances. A place Emma would much rather not spend time in.

“We need to be covert,” sounded his answer, but it failed to resonate with Emma.

She tilted her head and frowned as a movement in the background caught her eye.

“And we couldn’t be covert in an office or a place where there aren’t actual rats running around?” she questioned, pointing at the spot the rat had just run across.

Gold seemed less worried about the vermin running around; he could fit right in. Birds of a feather flock together and all that.

“Now is not the time to complain about hygienics, Ms. Swan. What have you found?” he repeated, uttering every word as if it was a sentence with a full stop.

Emma recognized that her efforts of convincing him to pick another meeting point would lead to absolutely nothing and so she simply accepted that she was going to look like she was offering Gold drugs in a dark alley. Though, if she was being entirely honest, it was most likely going to look like she was offering him something else.

Just the thought of that made bile rise in the back of her throat and made her want to end this briefing as soon as possible. She cleared her throat as she refocused on the matter at hand.

“After another week, observing Jones from afar has not proven to be very useful or helpful with me getting new information. I’ve therefore decided to switch tactics and, instead, I’m going to try and gain his trust.” Gold didn’t need to know the real reason why she’d had a sudden change of heart, it would only shrink his already microscopic amount of trust in her even more. “It’s now just a matter of him trusting me to get the information you need,” she told him, making sure he believed the ease with which she could handle the situation, even though she didn’t particularly believe in it herself.

His dark eyes slid over her face, assessing and attempting to read her features and even if what was going on in his brain mostly remained a mystery to her, Emma could see the wheels turning in his eyes, could almost hear his thoughts conferring with one another.

At last, he spoke.

“I hope you don’t get carried away, Ms. Swan. We do have a deal and I do not take my deals lightly.”

“Neither do I, Gold,” Emma guaranteed. “I’ll get the job done, don’t worry.”

“You better.”

She should’ve let the meeting end there, let the both of them part ways and not talk to each other until Gold required another briefing. But the hunch that something was off—the thought that she couldn’t in a million years fathom what intel Gold needed on Jones, especially since she spent some time talking to him and getting to know him—couldn’t stop thrumming in her head.

“What is it exactly that you want?” she then asked him outright. “I have already given all of the information I have found so far and there’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I’m not hiring you to ask questions, Ms. Swan. Leave that part to me. Keep your eyes and ears open, report back when you find more, that is all I require from you.” His accent had become thicker, more guttural, acting as yet another warning.

“Okay.” Emma threw her hands up in the air in concession.

She was not going to debate it or ask any more risky questions. The money Gold was paying made sure that she did not have to struggle to make ends meet; she was able to afford everything she needed with one, single job; she wasn’t about to jeopardize that.

“Until next time, I guess.” She shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

“I hope you have something more interesting to tell me then, or I’ll have to reconsider this whole arrangement.”

Gold left the way he had come and vanished into the darkness again. She didn’t wait until he was completely gone to properly roll her eyes in response to his irritating flare for the dramatics that was omnipresent.

Turning on the heel of her boot, Emma left as well, in the opposite direction Gold had gone. As she walked, she gathered her wet tresses, quickly combing them through with her fingers to avoid any knots. The heavy rainfall had luckily stopped, only a stray drop here and there falling out of the sky, and so when she was met with the choice of either taking the bus home or just walking to her apartment, the quiet atmosphere and the clean, crisp air outside made her choose the latter. They were a proven successful approach to clear her head.

One thought just wouldn’t allow itself to be deleted, however.

Or one person.

Jones.

She hadn’t thought a lot about the day they’d spent together, not yet. Maybe because she didn’t want her head clouded before the meeting with Gold but now that that was all over and done, it had free rein to infiltrate her mind again, to revisit the events anew.

As they had left the store the day before yesterday, she had been hit by an immense sense of fear. Not fear of being caught or a fear of sharing too much with him.

No, not that. It was the fear of having to spend a considerable amount of time with someone she just met. She wasn’t a good socializer, her lack of friends could attest to that. One could even say she was absolutely terrible at small talk. So why on earth had she agreed to spend the afternoon with him?

The funny thing, however, was that she’d spent those first moments so struck with anxiety, her thoughts so consumed by it, that she hadn’t even realized how fast time had gone by. How she’d been talking and laughing and listening without any awkwardness trailing the conversation, without any uncomfortable silences creeping in. And that was a new experience altogether.

Perhaps that was the reason she’d been so adamant to avoid the topic, because she wasn’t exactly sure what to think of it.

Or of the fact that she’d given him her cell phone number when he had asked.

She did tell Gold she was planning on gaining his trust, but whether that was the actual reason she’d so easily added her number to his contacts, Emma hadn’t quite figured out yet.

And again that same question from before resurfaced. Killian seemed like an ordinary guy. Nothing about him particularly stood out. No weird vibes, no strange behavior. Just a polite, somewhat reserved—but then again, flirty—dude. Someone who’d managed to make her feel at ease. What would Gold want with information about him, and, more importantly, what was he going to use it for?

Emma sighed as the question remained unanswered, her breath hot against the chilled air. Her feet continued to tap against the concrete, carrying her closer and closer to home. What had first been a pleasant brisk breeze, was now a freezing wind, chilling her to the core. The remaining raindrops falling from her hair certainly did not help.

She spotted her apartment from across the street and excitement ran through her body as she took those final steps. She needed a scalding shower to warm up again. And a lot of hot chocolate to warm up her insides again.

Just as her hand went to open her door, she suddenly realized she’d not bought new hot chocolate when she drank the last packet. She didn't have any chocolate to make it from scratch, either. Shit. Her hand fell from the handle, as she looked around at her surroundings and considered her options. It was already after ten, so the closest Tesco was already closed, and she didn’t particularly feel like taking the bus to the further one that was open until midnight, especially not in her drenched clothes.

Only one option remained. Well, two actually. The first one being going upstairs without and accepting there would be no hot chocolate, even though Emma didn’t feel like getting over her need for chocolate. It seemed like a pretty vital necessity. Option number two it was: the night shop two blocks away.

But she was still getting out of these freezing clothes first.

Emma reemerged from her building with a new set of warm and comfy clothes and made her way to the shop.

The door opened as she pushed against it, a little bell ringing as she did. The shop wasn’t that big and clearly targeted two types of people: the ones that wanted to get drunk and the ones that had gotten drunk and now craved some sort of greasy or sugary—unhealthy to sum it up—food. Emma was neither and so she knew that she’d have to go to the little corner of the shop meant for everyone, where she would find everything.

“Good evening,” she said and smiled to the shop owner behind the counter.

“Evening, miss.”

After her meeting with Gold, she’d had quite enough of people calling her miss. Plus, she frequented this place enough to switch to a first name basis.

“You can just call me Emma,” she told him over her shoulder as she made her way to the rack she knew contained what she desired. After some scanning, she came across the hot chocolate and removed it from the other items. It only took her a couple of steps to reach the counter again.

The young man—he had to be younger than she was or else she’d have to learn his secret—accepted the box she handed him.

“Evening, Emma,” he repeated. “I’m Samir.” He outstretched his hand and Emma grabbed it and gave it a quick shake. “Nice to meet you. This means I can finally stop calling you Rocky Road in my mind.”

“You gave me a nickname?” She cocked her head in surprise, the smile on her face widening into a grin.

Samir shrugged while scanning the box of hot chocolate.

“I do that with everyone who comes in here often. Especially with those who have a tendency to buy the same thing time and time again.” He lifted a dark eyebrow.

Well, if that didn’t say a lot about her late night snacking habits, Emma didn’t know what did.

The cash register ringed and Samir read the price off of it.

“That’s three quid, please.”

Emma’s hand disappeared into her pocket, in search of some change that hid inside. First, she fished out fifty pence and that was followed by a two-pound coin. One last effort of checking another pocket led to one last pound being recovered. “Keep it,” she said as Samir pushed the fifty pence back to her side of the counter.

“Thanks.” He threw the coin with the rest of them and closed the register.

“Can I ask you something?” Emma stored her box in the small shopping bag she’d brought along.

“Sure,” Samir replied, his brown eyes shining, reflecting the openness she felt radiating from him.

“You seem pretty young to own your own business. Or am I just really misjudging your age?”

It might be weird to just ask him that, but the longer she spent looking at his face, the younger he began to look.

“I’m twenty-three.”

That was more or less what Emma was estimating.

“This isn’t my store, it’s my dad’s,” he explained. “I’m filling in for a while. I just graduated uni, so I don’t have anything better to do for now.”

“Oh, congrats!” Emma said, her congratulations genuine as graduating from university deserved that. She’d never managed to do so. “What did you study?”

“Law.” Samir slightly ducked his head as if he was bashful about his choice or his accomplishments while there was absolutely no reason to be.

“You’re a lawyer? Impressive.”

“Well—” He tilted his head. “not so much a lawyer as waiting for someone to hire me to become one.”

She could then see how he’d rather be doing that than selling things to people in the middle of the night and Emma couldn’t blame him. If he’d studied to become a lawyer, was ready to be one, it must be frustrating to not have anyone give you a shot to do what your heart desired.

“I’m certain it will happen, Samir.” She nodded encouragingly. “If I ever need a lawyer, you’ll be the first I call, alright?” Emma winked.

“Fine by me. If you ever feel like visiting me again and having a chat, don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t. I hope you have a good night, Samir.”

“You too, Emma.”

And it seemed like Emma Swan had yet again participated in small talk and had actually gotten a friend out of it.

A friend and hot chocolate.

Monumental.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm in the mood for hot chocolate too... Anyways, I hope you liked it and do not despair, our favorite Brit is making his comeback next Thursday and it's a good one. See you then!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeeepp you guys, your feedback makes me so happy. It's been a real struggle to complete this fic with very little feedback and now I feel so spoiled <3 A cute, flirty chapter as a thank you :)
> 
> The feedback that I did get these past couple of months was amazing, however, all thanks to these two crazy ladies @ofshipsandswans and @acourtoftruelove
> 
> And also thanks to @shady-swan-jones for the feedback and the art she gave in return!

While giving Killian her phone number when he had asked her was a good way to keep in touch, she should probably have thought it through and asked for his number in return. Because now she was thoroughly stuck. Dependent on him, forced to be at his beck and call when he deemed the time since they had last seen each other respectably long enough to finally reach out.

Which meant she had to wait until he contacted her and considering she had literally nothing else to do, she was pretty bored. But she waited.

A day.

Another day.

She’d waited a grand total of five days before her phone had rung and showed a text from a number foreign to her phone.

_ Hi, Emma. This is Killian. I was wondering if you would fancy a coffee? _

On the one hand, it did bring a big advantage hanging out with Killian. She wouldn’t have to follow him anymore, wouldn’t have to try and figure out what he was up to when she could simply ask him. But it was a line. There was a line and Emma did not know if she could cross it. Ethically speaking, her profession already skirted the edges of what was just and respectable, but the line was something personal; a border somewhere inside of her. This was knowingly betraying someone, playing double agent and to do that to someone who had no idea what he was involved in seemed unfair. She would do a lot to ensure that she thrived but knocking someone else down was a step too far.

_ Emma: When and where? _

_Killian:_ _Are you always this dry in your texts?_

_ Emma: Straight to the point, what’s wrong with that? It reminds me of back when you still had to pay by the text. _

_ Killian: Dark and turbulent times, they were. Would 11 am tomorrow work? We could meet at Fika. _

_ Emma: Fine by me. _

_ Killian: See you then, Swan. _

-/-

The heatwave that had tormented the country earlier that week had definitely left for good and pouring rain had taken its place. Rain, wind, and thunderstorms, but the oppressive sensation remained in the air. She loved summer storms—even though it was technically still spring. The moment when the electricity was almost tangible in the air, when the skies burst open, cool water a relief against warm and sunburnt skin. The blue flashes of lightning lighting up an orangey sky. But for the past few days, it had only rained. And rained. And, big surprise, rained. So much that the normally soothing clatter of it against her window now only bothered her and made her hanker for quiet—for the little taps against the glass to stop.

The little taps that were now attacking her umbrella as she walked. An icy blue-colored logo caught her attention and when she approached, the name of the shop in big letters of the same color became visible. She had arrived

Her head went from left to right while checking the street for any incoming traffic and when it was safe—no cars, buses, or cyclists in sight—she crossed. A couple just walked out of the coffeehouse, the two men smiling at her as they held the door open for her to enter. Emma smiled back, almost touched by the small act of kindness their gallantry brought. The couple exited and she entered.

Emma let her eyes roam and let her mind take in all of the new impressions. The inside decorations were clean and tight, nothing she’d expect a coffeehouse to be. Straight lines, bold colors. It was modern, something she never would’ve guessed watching from the outside. It looked like an IKEA showroom but on a whole different level and with a touch of hipster. She liked it. Obviously, someone with a clear vision had searched and matched furniture, had created this whole concept between four walls.

There was a colorful display of cupcakes that snatched her attention away from the decor and refocused it on the grumble of her stomach. She’d skipped breakfast—hadn’t had time to as she set her alarm for a time that had only left time room for her to dress fast and leave. Besides, it was 11 am and a Sunday—brunching was a thing. A thing mainly invented to be able to start drinking alcohol at breakfast and have it be socially acceptable, but a thing nonetheless.

“Swan!” was shouted somewhere above her and soon she saw the man to whom the voice belonged descending from a pair of stairs, his feet thumping so quickly that, before she could properly turn around, he was already standing beside her. “Hello.”

“Hi,” she returned the greeting.

“Welcome to Fika,” he beamed. “Also known as my current employment,” he admitted after a beat or two.

“A cupcake shop?”

Of course she, as PI Emma Swan, knew where he worked. But she also knew that Emma, the girl that had only recently met Killian wouldn’t know that and would have to be surprised. Or act as if she was surprised. Back to the acting, it was.

“And café. We sell really good cupcakes.”

“Okay.” Emma shrugged, accepting the explanation she didn’t really need or require. The cupcakes already looked delicious, she was sure they’d taste delicious too.

“I take care of the PR,” he continued to explain, almost trying to justify his profession.

“Of a cupcake shop  _ and _ café.” She nodded while repeating his earlier words. “Got it.” She wasn’t trying to be rude or anything, but Killian’s slightly fumbling behavior about his job was keeping her from eating the aforementioned mentioned cupcakes. She’d gladly talk about it all (how he worked in a cupcake shop and a café) once she’d devoured at least one.

“We do have really good cupcakes.”

“I suppose I should try them at some point then.” A subtle hint.  _ Some point _ clearly meant right now. Which Killian got, a nod confirming had gotten the message. Points to Killian.

Emma took another look at the display and singled out a couple of varieties she would not mind tasting at all.

A dark wooden door opened, revealing a pale woman with even paler hair. Her piercing blue eyes matched the color of her jumpsuit and frantically searched her surroundings for something until they stopped. They were looking for someone apparently.

“Sven!” She walked towards one of the waiters. “Where are the carrots for the carrot cupcake? Did you eat them again? How many times do I have to tell you that—” She stopped mid-sentence when her eyes caught sight of the two of them, now awkwardly shuffling on their feet as one did when they were a witness to something they were not supposed to see. “Killian! What are you doing here? It’s your day off. You couldn’t miss the sweets,” she concluded with a disapproving shake of her head, a few strands of white hair escaping her braid.

“Of course I couldn’t. Also, where else am I going to get an employee discount?” He winked.

“Nowhere because I’m your boss and I am going to keep it that way.” She turned to Emma, her white-blonde hair glowing in the dimmed and cozy lighting of the cafe. For a moment she simply watched her, her direct stare thoroughly looking her over, before her expression shifted from concentration to kindness and she smiled. “Hi, I’m Elsa.”

“Emma.”

“Nice to meet you.” She inclined her head, her braid moving against her shoulder. “Take a seat, someone will be with you right away.”

“Thanks!”

Killian’s prosthetic motioned towards the sitting area and as she walked in front of him, Emma could pick a place for them to sit. Eventually, she led them to a dark wooden circular table; not too secluded and far off from the counter but far enough to avoid the bustle of waiters moving about and customers lining up. Emma set her umbrella on the ground, hung her bag on the chair and took off her green raincoat before covering her chair and bag with it. Killian patiently waited and only sat down as she did, the both of them simultaneously scooting their chairs closer.

Here they were again, sitting across each other, having a  tête-à-tête . But, while their previous encounter was an impromptu meeting, unforeseen and spontaneous, this one was planned. Agreed upon. Which meant that the stakes were considerably higher.

Killian could decide after today that he didn’t like her and wasn’t interested in spending more time with her. While her ego would most likely bruise upon hearing that, it was mostly the mission she was worried about. A lot was riding on the assumption that they would continue to hang out and she’d be able to continue this undercover assignment and if they didn’t, Emma wasn’t sure how she could fix that. She couldn’t undo her choice of approach and if he saw her trailing him, he’d surely think she was a stalker—a logical deduction. She had to make this work.

“The weather has been terrible, hasn’t it?” she asked, glancing to the big rain-stained window. “I want last week’s weather back.”

“Aye, I preferred having the sun, too.” His shoulders moved in a shrug and he cast a glance outside as well. “Oh well, you know what they say: if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

“Sorry?” she asked while leaning closer and frowning. “Who exactly says that?”

“People?” Killian answered with his own question, a whimsical look on his face.

She laughed and his hand went up to scratch the back of his head.

“No,” she said to try and stop him from feeling sheepish. “I mean, I like it but I tend to go for my own version which is: life fucking sucks, deal with it.”

“Which is also an approach,” he agreed while smiling, “Albeit a distinctively different one.”

“That’s why you work in PR and I don’t.” Her shoulders rose. “Speaking of: what does ‘taking care of PR’ entail exactly?”

“A bit of everything,” Killian replied. “I run the social media sites, write newsletters, respond to any complaints.”

Emma took one of the menus that lay on the table and unfolded it, letting her eyes roam over all of the possible foods and drinks she could drink compiled in a classy and clean list.

“I wouldn’t believe this place has any complaints. Look at this.” She pointed at no specific part because everything had the same level of quality and refined taste in decoration, everything fit the picture and vibe perfectly.

“It rarely does. Elsa is too professional for people to even try and find something negative about this place. But some people just can’t be pleased.”

“I don’t have the right temper for PR,” Emma admitted.

She’d get frustrated with people and roll her eyes constantly which would, in turn, frustrate the other person even more and they’d end up in a never-ending cycle, or perhaps it would end with Emma fired.

“I’m a patient man. And I’d like to think of myself as quite cordial and persuasive.”

Before Emma could either confirm or deny his statement, a waitress made her way to their table, a welcoming smile directed at them. She held a little notebook in her hand and flipped it to the next blank page to take their order. She had stashed her pen behind her ear and retrieved it, pressing the top to extend the tip and having it at the ready.

Her freckles were spread all across her pale skin, adding to the innocence that seemed to radiate off of her.

“Well, who do we have here.” She tilted her head to Jones. “Why are you here? Not that you  _ can’t _ be here but it’s your day off.” She looked at Emma before leaning closer to Killian. “Ooh, who’s that?”

“Anna, easy.”

The woman took a big breath and slowly released it again. Her hands went up. “It’s okay, I’m calm.”

“Perfect. Emma, this is Anna, Elsa’s sister. Anna, this is Emma, a friend of mine.”

A friend of his. Was that their label now? They’d gone from strangers to friends. It was a positive sign, one that said she was making progress and didn’t have to be that afraid of Jones not wanting to hang out anymore.

“Hi, nice to meet you!” Anna greeted her excitedly.

“Nice to meet you, too, Anna.”

“What can I get ya?” Her red eyebrows soared with the question.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet.” Emma grabbed the menu again and suddenly the clean piece of paper felt overwhelming, filled with so many options and choices.

“Take your time. Fika is really important.”

Was she describing her own coffeehouse as really important? There was nothing wrong with some confidence when it came to your business but praising it to customers like that might not leave the best impression. Killian watched Emma and seemed to have picked up on her reaction to Anna’s statement.

“Anna doesn’t mean that the coffeehouse itself is really important,” he clarified and Anna herself realized that Emma had misinterpreted her words too.

“Oh no! Elsa and I grew up on the border of Sweden and Norway, and fika is this big, almost sacred thing there. See it as a coffee break but obligatory. It’s a ritual to avoid stress and we wanted to bring some of that mentality here, in one of the most stressful cities of the world, hence the name.”

“Wow, that’s nice. I really like that.”

“I really like you,” Anna responded. “You did well, Killian.”

“Just friends, Anna,” he reminded her. “I think I’ll go for an ordinary black coffee.” He brought everyone back to the matter at hand.

Right, they were ordering. Emma took another look at the menu, actually reading their options this time and trying to decide what sounded the most seductive.

“I’ll have a triple chocolate cupcake and a mocha latte, please.” She looked up from the menu to Anna and smiled.

Once she finished scribbling, Anna shut the notebook again. “Coming right up,” she said with her own smile before returning to the counter.

“Apologies for Anna. She gets overly excited about almost everything but she’s also about the sweetest person you’ll ever meet.”

“It’s fine. She does seem extremely kind.” She took the menu and stored it back with the others, the table empty again.

Killian hummed along with a song softly playing on the speakers spread around the café, his fingers tapping on the wood of the table. The hum was barely there, under his breath as if he couldn’t help but take part in the music, his blood thrumming with every note.

Suddenly, he remembered he had company and the drumming brusquely stopped, so did the humming.

“Sorry, it’s a bad habit of mine,” he apologized.

“Don’t apologize. You’ve got a good voice,” Emma complimented and it was a genuine one.

“Thank you. Believe it or not, I used to be part of a band.”

The band was called Neverland, Jones was lead singer and guitarist of the band he’d founded together with three of his friends back when he was twenty-three. She didn’t have to believe him because she knew.

“Would it be bad if I said that I’m not surprised?”

Killian eyed her warily. “That is going to depend on why you’re not surprised.”

“You’ve got that whole rocker vibe going on. The tattoo, the necklace, the ever-present chest hair, the I-woke-up-like-this hair, not to mention the leather jacket,” she summed up using her fingers to count. “It either screams ‘I’m in a band’ or ‘I’m aspiring to be in a band.’”

He narrowed his blue eyes as he watched her. “I’m attempting to assess if that’s meant as a compliment or not.”

Emma lifted her hands, letting her eyebrows soar in a playful manner. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” A smirk played on her lips.

“Perhaps I would,” Killian replied, not missing a beat. Suddenly, everything felt more intense, the entire atmosphere shifted, coming down as a heavy feeling on her chest. It might’ve been his husky voice or the way he looked at her, but something was definitely happening and she had no control over it.

Before it got out of hand, she saw Anna approaching out of the corner of her eye. Emma let out a silent sigh of relief both because of the diversion and because the redhead was carrying a tray with the cupcakes she had long desired after.

“Here we are,” she said once she approached their table. Dimples appeared in her freckled cheeks as she kindly smiled before setting down the drinks. “So that’s a triple chocolate cupcake and a mocha latte for you, Emma.” Anna turned to Killian. “And a simple black coffee for you, ya big bore.”

“Oi,” he remonstrated. “Will you let me have my coffee in peace, please?”

“At least Emma got something interesting,” Anna argued, flicking one of her two auburn braids off her shoulder.

“We’re picking sides now, are we?” He crossed his arms in discontent. “And here I thought being your nice and dedicated colleague for months would put me ahead of a virtual stranger.”

“To be fair,” Emma interrupted, “my drink has chocolate and yours doesn’t, so I think it’s clear who the winner is here, Jones.”

Anna lit up and giggled when Emma joined her in making fun of Killian’s lack of originality. The two gave each other a quick high-five before Anna told them to enjoy their food and drinks and left them to be alone again.

“You’re nothing like I thought you were, Emma Swan,” Killian said while shaking his head, his lips curled into a smile.

“Is that a good thing?”

He didn’t answer, instead he took a sip of his boring coffee and the question was left unanswered, occasionally reminding Emma of its presence by buzzing in the air.

“What do you do in your off-time?” he eventually asked.

Emma did absolutely nothing in her free time. She usually had none, always busy working that she’d forget to even eat. All of her friends—she had like four, but who cared—knew that and tended to bring her food to make sure she was fed and to use as an opportunity to hang out.

“Not an awful lot,” she told him truthfully. “I’m famous for working a lot. I am going to attempt to start working out again now that I’m here. You?” She drank from her cup.

“I read a lot, like to go to museums. Like any Brit, I like watching football. Proper football,” he specified. “Not some American BS.”

“Hey,” she objected. She might not be a sports person but she was still American. “Have some respect, please. Besides, at least American football has some action going on. Soccer is pretty boring.”

“Take that back,” he threatened with his teaspoon, his eyes turning into slits.

Emma shook her head defiantly.

“Fine, you’ve left me no choice.” He raised his shoulders. “I will have to make you watch a football match.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?” She cockily challenged him by resting her head on her palm and leaning closer. “I don’t really get pressured into things.”

“I’ll kindly ask you to come to my flat to watch a match. Food and beer will be present and in the unlikely event that you are bored, we can watch something else.”

Emma watched him. Going to his apartment, eating together, cozying it up while watching television it all seemed slightly too… well cozy. Slightly too date-like. But what choice did she have but to accept? Getting closer would mean more information and it wasn’t as if spending time with Killian would be the worst thing the world. Far from it, actually.

“Okay,” she agreed. “But you need to make sure you have beer because I don’t think I’ll survive it otherwise.”

“And people tell me I’m dramatic. But that’s a deal.”

They continued to talk about other mundane, safe stuff. What kind of movies they liked and whether London was a better place than Boston (Killian said yes, Emma said no.) Before they knew it, hours had passed and they’d both drank two drinks and she’d eaten two cupcakes (So. good.)

“I better get going,” Emma said. “I still have some groceries to do.”

She began to gather her stuff, her bag and coat on the chair, her umbrella in the corner, before standing up. Killian followed her immediately.

“I had fun today, Swan,” he told her and she couldn't help but nod along. She’d truly enjoyed the time they had spent together today, maybe even more so than last time.

“I did too.” She zipped up the zipper of her coat. “Just text me your address and when you wanna bore me to death by forcing me to watch soccer.”

“Mark my words, Emma Swan. You are going to hate how much you’ll love it.”

And the only word she could think of to describe the way he promised her that was confident. Confident and sexy.

But she refused to agree, it didn’t matter how sexy that irritating smirk was. “That’s what you think.”

“Oh, trust me. I know.”

“Bye, Jones.” She started walking away, waving to Anna as she made her way to the exit.

“Oh, and Swan,” Killian spoke just as she was about to open the door.

“Yeah?” Emma turned back to him, a questioning eyebrow raised.

“This isn’t a date,” he dared to tell her.

Emma scoffed. “You wish, Jones.”

A salacious grin as he waved her goodbye left Emma leaving with her own grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is actually the three-year-anniversary of my Tumblr blog and the three-year-anniversary of me writing fic so I'd like to thank you all for following me and/or reading the things I write. It means the world to me! We'll meet here again on Thursday <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... we're entering a really nice part of the fic with three pretty long chapters. I had so much fun writing this chapter and you'll finally see why Jan Vertonghen (my bae) is mentioned as a character :) This fic also has a playlist specially crafted by yours truly which you can find [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1bDEdrqRSqY7DAql65bBoJ?si=XQ3QmhYTRQe_nDkDiL8mlQ) .I’ve played it a gazillion times while writing A Muted Hue of Grey and the cool thing is that the playlist follows the story of the fic as it progresses, so you'll get an idea of what's to come through the music.
> 
> Other music to my ears was the kind and encouraging words @acourtoftruelove and @ofshipsandswans whispered (or shouted) to me.
> 
> @shady-swan-jones, then again, was responsible for making me happy with another form of art, which she marvelously did! Look at this

Emma checked her phone again—more specifically the message on it. Killian had said to come around 7:40 as the match would start at eight. The clock of her phone now told her it was time. But she simply stood there. In front of the building she’d seen him enter a million times. He’d texted her the address but it was redundant; she was perfectly aware of where he lived, what part of town, what street, what floor. And it was all of that knowledge that nailed her feet to the concrete ground, that made her body a block of weight. She’d step into new territory now, uncharted waters. Gone was all of the information she’d gathered before and now only a trove of personal and hidden details about one Killian Jones remained.

She would get to know so much, because he trusted her and invited her and wanted to spend time with her.

So she made a deal with herself on the threshold of Killian’s building. Anything he told her would not be shared, anything she discovered would not be reported. This was his life and it was bad enough already that Emma got paid to divulge his outside movements. Misusing that trust he granted her, manipulating it for something so vile, selling it for money… she wouldn’t stoop so low.

The black numbers at the top of her screen changed again, adding another minute to the time, making her an extra minute late. Killian—Mr. Exact—wouldn’t appreciate that, she suspected, so, with a little more effort than it normally took, Emma stepped towards the door, her first venture into unknown territory.

As she trudged up the stairs, she wondered if she should have brought anything: a bottle of wine or something else that guests gave the host when they were invited. Maybe she should’ve stopped by Samir’s to buy something instead of arriving with empty hands. Either way, it was too late now, his floor coming into view and Emma walked up to number 305, his apartment.

Her hand lightly knocked on the door and she barely had to wait before it swung open, revealing a smiling Killian. Someone was excited. And she wasn’t excited enough. Emma plastered a wide smile onto her face to remedy that when he greeted her.

“Hello, Swan. Welcome to my humble abode.” He widened the door to show her she was welcome to enter and she did, her eyes traveling around the room as she began to unzip her leather jacket.

“Thanks,” she said in no particular direction, her attention captured by all of the nautical elements incorporated into his decor. There stood a miniature ship on his bookshelf, a large canvas of a sunset at sea graced the wall across the kitchen, his coat rack—which was where she hung her jacket once she shrugged it off—consisted of little anchors; she’d entered the home of a sailor.

“What’s with the nautical theme?” she asked, turning back to Killian who was appraising her.

“Oh.” Killian scratched the back of his head. “Uh, just a fan of it,” he explained simply.

Emma decided to ask no further and raised her eyebrow, telling him to lead the way and show her where they would watch the game.

“Yes, the match. Well, it’s starting in…” Killian checked the simple clock to his left. “Fourteen minutes. Please take a seat.” He motioned towards a comfortable-looking light brown couch that stood across the operating television. “I’ll go get the beer you so adamantly requested.”

“It’s the only way I’ll be able to enjoy this thing,” she jested, stepping towards and settling into the couch, its soft material sinking under her weight.

He let out a short, boisterous laugh in return. “That’s what you think, Swan. I, in fact, know better.” The statement exuded confidence and to top it off, his lips morphed into a smirk, something that made Emma catch herself as she licked her lips in response.

If that was how this night was going to go, she was in big trouble. Yes, Killian was pretty high up on the scale of attractiveness—and yes, pretty was an understatement as he, in reality, triumphantly stood at the top of Emma’s personal list with his vibrant eyes and light scruff. She was also painfully aware that she couldn’t.

He was her job. She could not get involved; it would only make this messier than it already was. So she had—like her life depended on it—to get the image of him doing wicked things with that smirk etched on his face out of her mind and focus on less attractive things.

She accepted the cool bottle of beer Killian handed her, immediately taking a swig from it and waited for a sign that the alcohol was settling in. Boredom claimed her as Killian was rattling around in the kitchen preparing snacks and whatnot for them to devour and the television only showed a bunch of men discussing their predictions for the oncoming match with names she neither recognized nor cared about. Emma left the plush sofa again, beer bottle grasped between her two palms and began pacing in the short space between the couch and the wall, halting by the fairly large cabinet of both books and CDs.

“What music do you listen to?” she asked Killian over her shoulder. His preparing momentarily stopped as he looked up at her question.

“You know so much about me already, why don’t you tell me,” he joked and it made Emma feel uneasy. This was the one thing she couldn’t figure out before and she wanted to know. From him, from his lips what he was like. Not from some case file, not from some observation.

So she told the truth.

“I must admit that I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

He turned towards the sink for a moment, wiping his hands on a teal kitchen towel that hung there and came back to the counter, a pan in hand that he filled with something Emma couldn’t identify from that far, but that clattered against its iron bottom.

“Honestly,” he finally answered and Emma leaned on the back of the couch, listening with reverence. “I listen to everything and nothing. I like a lot of music but I’ve also been listening to the same songs for years. You can go through my CDs, if you’d like.” He pointed the spoon he was holding at the cabinet she stood before and Emma eagerly accepted the invitation, used the consent he was giving to push herself away from the couch and approach the cabinet even more.

Her index finger, with a black-painted nail, traced all of the plastic cases, Emma’s head cocked sideways as she read the names that were shown on them. She understood what he said and agreed because there was a large variety of music amongst his collection.

She let out an amused sound as her fingers paused by a CD and picked it out, removing it from its home. She scanned the cover and flipped it over.

“Ed Sheeran?” she said, and it was something akin to a question but also just a simple statement. She faced Killian again and he lifted his eyes towards her, not a hint of embarrassment in the direct stare.

“Aye.” He shrugged and his hand reached for the knob to turn on the fire, placing the pan on the lit stove. “Even I need a sappy love song from time to time and who better than a fellow Brit.”

Emma laughed and put the CD back where it belonged. “Does it have to do with the fact that you both carry the ginger gene?”

She had noticed those hairs in his beard, was quite transfixed by them actually. When the sun hit it, it became an auburn flare.

“I’m not a ginger,” he said defiantly while frowning. “A few stray hairs in my beard scarcely classifies as ginger.”

“If you say so.” And Emma hit him with a smirk of her own.

A familiar smell drifted through the apartment and soon a sound accompanied it; a popping sound that could only be linked with popcorn and so the mysterious substance was finally identified. Much to Emma’s satisfaction, who had to keep herself from vocalizing how good it smelled.

Killian came back to the couch with a steaming bowl that looked as good as it smelled and set it on the coffee table.

“The match is about to start.” He grabbed the remote control to raise the volume, not so subtly putting an end to the conversation—or maybe just the subject.

“So,” she said. “How does this thing work?”

She wasn’t idiotic, obviously. She knew the basics of soccer but Killian was so passionate about teaching her the ways, they might as well go all out, starting with Soccer 101 by Professor Killian Jones.

Killian certainly didn’t mind as he sat a bit straighter, his expressive hand and prosthetic immediately mimicking the field and as he enthusiastically began explaining all of the positions and who would assume what role when it came to his favorite team.

“So we’re rooting for the white team,” Emma concluded once his speech was done and the players got onto the field.

“Yes, Swan,” Killian replied with pride. “White is Tottenham.”

And the warm sensation that danced around in her body had nothing to do with that pride. Or so she told herself.

“Who’s your favorite player?” Emma asked.

“Number 5,” he replied without hesitation and without his gaze leaving the flat screen.

By instinct, she leaned closer, peering at the image before her, searching all of the white jerseys for the number. Finally, her eyes discerned the dark number on one of the moving shirts. It seemed some cameraman took pity on her and her squinting as the image shifted into a close up of said player.

Emma gasped, her mouth opening and widening in amusement as she twisted her body towards Killian. “He has a ginger beard too! It’s meant to be.” Her hand ventured out to poke him, but he shied away.

“Will you stop it?” he begged but his plea was weakened by the amusement in the crinkles surrounding his eyes. “Besides Vertonghen isn’t British so that invalidates your theory.” She could see the pride in his posture at having bested her.

“No need to get all pedantic, Jones.”

“Apologies, Swan.” He presented her the bowl of popcorn as a peace offering with which she had no qualms to accept. “Simply needed to set the record straight.”

Forgiving him went instantly as she popped a popcorn into her mouth and reveled in the taste. Who knew simple popcorn could taste so amazing without having to add milk duds. She grabbed another handful, folded her legs under her and leaned back into the sofa, her attention returning to the game before her.

And with every pass, every almost-goal, every cheer, she began to relax more, to enjoy herself more. To the point where she actually became invested in the whole ordeal.

“Wait, but they scored!” she shouted, hands flying in the air to show her indignation. “Why isn’t it an extra point for us?”

This time, he was allowed to be pedantic because she required Killian’s knowledge to understand what was going on and to leave the bubble of confusion she currently inhabited.

“It was offside,” Killian explained, his shoulders rising in a shrug. When the cloud of disorientation did not leave her gaze, when he realized his answer was not sufficient enough for a soccer amateur to capture, he shifted on the couch, Emma following his movements with a furrowed brow as she saw him reach for their bottles that stood next to and on the coffee table.

“Bottle number one—” Killian held up one of her empty bottles and ripped off the label once it stood on the table. “—is the attacker. Number two and three are the opposite team and the goalkeeper of that team is…” He looked around searching for a way to distinguish the goalkeeper. In the end, he went for a discarded cap and placed it on the bottle again. With all of his allegorical players ready and the match temporarily paused, the lesson was ready to begin.

“The gist of the offside rule is that a player cannot be near the opposite goalkeeper without having any defenders or the ball there. So if our attacker ran towards the goalkeeper without the ball, waiting for a pass and ready to score—” Killian dragged the bare bottle over the table, closer to the goalkeeper. “But there are no defenders close, he’s offside and it’s counted as a mistake, goals made like that don’t count. However, if the opponent were to be standing here for example—” Another bottle joined the other two. “—and the attacker would get a pass, it would be allowed.”

Killian looked at her with expectant eyes but Emma was too busy attempting to grasp the concept, his words repeating in the back of her head, the visualizations replaying over and over, but in the end, she had to give up. Error. Her brain did not compute.

“Yeah, no.” She shook her head. “I don’t get it. But that’s okay,” she reassured, hand clasping Killian’s hand that was reaching for the bottle again, no doubt to try and simplify it for her. “Thanks for trying.”

They watched the final seven minutes of the match without a hitch and without anything notable happening. They did a close up of number five again and some other easy-on-the-eye players but besides that, it stayed uneventful, the competition ending with a tie between the two teams and both audiences and fans equally content and disappointed by the outcome.

Killian grabbed the remote control and as soon as the analysts appeared on the screen again, he pressed the red off button, the image fading to black and taking the background noise with it, only leaving a comfortable silence between them.

“So Swan, did you actually enjoy yourself or was it only tolerable thanks to the beer?” There was a vulnerability beneath the surface of that question, under the humor in his words, one that proved he did want her to have enjoyed herself, to not have disappointed her.

“I have to admit that I did have fun watching it.” His face lit up. “I’m still calling it soccer though.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded with a slight bow of his head, a strand of hair falling in front of his forehead. “Can I get you another?” A quick nod towards her now empty beer bottle and the question made the hesitance rise in her chest.

She should go home. The match was over, the purpose of this get-together was fulfilled, her job was done. But there was something holding her back, keeping her from getting off of the cozy couch, putting her shoes and jacket back on and walking out, slamming the door behind her and leaving all of the enjoyment and attachment in his apartment.

He would let her leave, she knew he would give her a choice and he would pretend it wasn’t as much of a letdown to avoid making her feel guilty, to avoid entrapping her. It was exactly that notion that caused her to feel at ease, that made her want to spend time with him, more than she should.

Her obligations and longings were as far from one another as they could be. Polar opposites. So far that she had to make a choice between the two, pick left or pick right to reach one destination.

“Sure, why not,” Emma replied, lips curling into a smile. “It’s a good thing I don’t have to drive home.”

Before he left the couch to grab a refill, he flashed her a confused look.

“I don’t have a car—at least not here,” she explained once he returned, fresh drinks in hand. “I have one back in the States but it would cost a fortune to ship it here and she’s somewhat of an old timer so I don’t think the trip would do her very good. Friends of mine are taking care of her.”

The gentle atmosphere that hung around Killian, that his eyes and smile exuded, made her realize this was one of the first times she told him something personal. Something she hadn’t meticulously planned and considered. Something spontaneous and sanguine **.** He had noticed it too, somehow.

“Tell me more about you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper and so gentle to ease her in and make sure she didn’t scare off. He was the metaphorical caress to her metaphorical scared and riled animal, ready to take off any second. How he’d figured that out, Emma didn’t know. The facade she had created—the one she thought was working so well but apparently wasn’t—was different than who she was; the mask was more open and bright. More bubbly and chirpy. More Mary Margaret, her friend back in Boston whom she’d used as a source, as an inspiration she could model her copy to, which made Emma feel closer to her in a strange way.

“What do you wanna know?” Emma smiled as if it wasn’t paining her to lower her walls, to set herself up for this much vulnerability, without the hardened bricks present to protect her.

Killian smiled back at her feigned—which he was unaware of, of course—enthusiasm, considering the question with a drum of his fingers on the table.

“First of all… born and raised in Boston?” He looked up at her.

This answer was easy still. Facts. Unequivocal and verifiable truths about Emma Swan’s life. There was no point in lying; it would only lead to a dubious backstory she’d immediately forget again and it would leave room for mistakes and getting caught, which she could not afford happening.

“No to both. Born in Maine **.** Raised… well, all over the place.”

Killian narrowed his eyes and Emma wanted to smother every question that already lay behind their cyan color, so she shrugged and answered: “I had a pretty wild childhood.”

He nodded in understanding, but she could detect the questions her vague answer had not managed to wipe out.

“How did you eventually end up in Boston?”

Was she happy with the different topic or would she rather have focused more on her being an orphan without saying the words aloud than talk about the reasons she went to Boston? It felt like choosing the lesser of two evils, but it seemed like Killian had made the choice for her. She had no idea what to tell him, though, hadn’t thought of an alternative to the actual story that would seem believable.

The truth it was.

“It’s a tale of woe and sorrow but I had a shitty boyfriend that I traveled around with for a while.” Emma fidgeted. “Up until he left me to take the blame for his crime and let me go to jail for it. Spent a couple of months there and when I got out, word on the street was that he had been planning to go to Canada but changed his mind last minute and went south instead. I, never wanting to see him again, went north. There was an APB out for him in Boston so I figured he wouldn’t dare come searching for me once he heard I got out. I didn’t mean enough to him. I couldn’t, when he cared about himself most. It took me a lot of sad, angry tears and low moments to come to that conclusion.”

He reached over with his right hand and covered her knee, showing his support with a light squeeze.

“Swan, I’m so sorry,” he reacted and Emma did not doubt it for a second. 

He had not anticipated such a simple question generating a tragic backstory and, if she was being honest, Emma did not either. She could say it was because of what she had intended to do those few hours ago when she stood on the sidewalk, pretend the moment of candor had anything to do with it, but then she would only slightly be warping the truth. It felt nice to talk without being judged or probed **.**

Killian listened, and judging from the very short conversations revolving around her, he listened with care. Interest. As if she was telling the most riveting tale, whispering the most classified secret, reciting the most breathtaking verses. His attention made her feel considered, his hums made her validated, the nods of his head secure. And even if she was not addressing masses of people or a group of important leaders, he listened. Killian listened and that was enough.

-/-

“Good morning, Swan!” he chirped into her ear, taking no more than two seconds to make her regret answering her phone so early in the morning. She groaned in reply and it could’ve been a greeting or an irritated response to his chipperness, Emma couldn’t tell herself.

Killian, however, clearly took it as the first option seeing that his voice had the same pitch and intonation when he continued speaking.

“I got tickets.”

The hand that wasn’t holding her cellphone rubbed over her face and into her still sleepy eyes.

“To what?” Emma mumbled.

How, she didn’t know, but she could hear his smile over the line, hear it buzzing and singing in the silence between them. And it acted as the best wake up call. It felt as if her head got dunked into a bucket of ice water, her eyes popping open.

“Killian…” she said to counter the silence, to prompt him to come out with it.

“How would you feel about a trip to Wembley, Swan?”

Wembley? Why would they go there? Emma’s sleep muddled brain attempted to come up with a logical explanation why they would venture into that part of town, but came up empty.

“What’s in Wembley?”

Her question got partially interrupted by a yawn, the crook of her elbow covering her mouth.

“The stadium where Tottenham plays its matches this season,” he said matter-of-factly

Somehow, she was surprised she hadn’t guessed that earlier but she had an excuse, she’d been awake for all of three minutes and her brain was still warming up for usage.

“Seriously?” she questioned and Killian hummed in reply. “You shouldn’t have.”

He hadn’t actually said that he had, but Emma could read between the lines, could sense what exactly he was telling her without actually telling her.

“Don’t fret about it, Swan,” he downplayed.  “I’ve wanted to go ever since I returned.”

“So it’s a mere coincidence that you bought tickets just two weeks after we watched a match?”

“Something like that. Now, will you join me? The match is next Saturday.”

“Sure, count me in,” she answered, not even thinking about refusing. She could worry about that part later.

“Splendid! I’ll let you sleep, sorry for the early call.”

At least he showed some remorse.

“You’re forgiven,” Emma sighed. “See you then.”

“Bye, Swan.”

-/-  

She felt overwhelmed by the sheer mass of people that surrounded her, all adorned with the colors of their favorite team and searching for their spots among all of the red colored seats. Killian was her guide, her point of recognition in all of this; she merely followed his footsteps, kept her eyes on his dark hair, trusting him and his sense of direction completely.

“Here we are,” he said when he stopped before a row of seats, pointing at those that belonged to them for the night.

They both got comfortable, sitting down in the plastic chairs and looked around. So many people were present, it was quite impressive.

Something caught Emma’s eye, “Number five!” She pointed at the field and glanced over to the massive screen that hung at both sides, showing the action that was happening on the field. “That’s the one you liked.”

“Aye, Vertonghen,” he said, his voice sounding an awful lot like a dreamy sigh and, when Emma watched him, he looked mesmerized as well.

A giggle escaped her mouth due to Killian’s adorable fanboying and she tried to subdue it by placing her hand over it, keeping him from either figuring out she was laughing at him or making him feel self-aware but eventually, Emma couldn’t help herself.

Leaning closer to him, she whispered, “He’s more dreamy in real life, isn’t he.”

And it had its effect, the tips of Killian’s ears changing to a red color, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

“Oh, hush.”

Emma laughed, out loud and freely this time.

“Don’t make me regret inviting you along,” he warned with an accusing finger. “Or we’ll have to discuss your own obsession with Harry Potter.”

The hell? She was fairly sure she’d never mentioned her love for Harry Potter to him, nor made any allusions that would make him able to conclude she was quite a dedicated fan of the series. It had helped her through some tough times, to think Harry was an orphan too, lived with shitty foster parents as well made things more bearable, even if it was barely. She had never told Killian that story, he didn’t even know everything there was to her past, so where was this coming from?

“What?” A crease appeared between her eyebrows as she eyed him with wariness “How do you know that?”

“I’m actually quite perceptive.” Killian leaned closer to her this time. “And the Gryffindor emblem is your background picture.”

Oh right. It had been her background picture for as long as she could remember, so long that she’d grown so accustomed to it and her eyes didn’t see it anymore, or she didn’t think about what other people would think about it.

“I’m proud of it,” Emma admitted, not wanting to come up with excuses or lies to hide the truth.

“You should be,” he replied with a gleam in his eyes. “I wear my Hufflepuff badge with pride too.”

“You’re a Hufflepuff?” fell from her mouth, the question more shocked than it should be, earning her a look from Killian.

“Does that surprise you?”

Emma thought about why it sounded so strange that he was a Hufflepuff. Was it only because she didn’t expect him to be a Potterhead or was there more? Killian was kind and loyal too so why shouldn’t he be in Hufflepuff?

“It does, actually.” She had found the answer to her question. “But only because I could see you fit into all of the houses.”

Besides being kind and loyal, he carried a braveness and fierceness around, like she did, like a Gryffindor would. He was cunning and ambitious, key characteristics of a Slytherin and to top it off, he was smart and cunning, Ravenclaw characteristics. The man was freaking amazing.

“I’m assuming that’s a good thing?”

“It is.” Emma nodded assuredly. “Trust me.”

A shrill whistle on the referee’s part interrupted their conversation and set the match into action under the loud applause of the spectators all around them.

Forty-five minutes flew by and before she knew it, it was halftime. Killian proposed to buy her a drink but Emma had to refuse, the fact that he had purchased the most likely expensive tickets for tonight without asking her to pitch in. She even felt slightly guilty and didn’t want him to think she was taking advantage of him, so instead she asked him what he wanted to drink and told him to sit down and relax while she went to order their drinks and some snacks, because the constant yelling and jumping up and down had worked up an appetite with Emma.

She zigzagged through the groups of people, the fifteen-minute window she had spooking in the back of her mind and making her steps just that tad more hurried, her movements slightly less patient.

The line for the food and drink stand was excruciatingly long but she had no option but to insert herself into it, to wait along with the others until it was her turn.

She made it back to Killian with one minute to spare, the players already back on the field preparing to resume the game.

“Sorry for the wait,” she said, making Killian turn around. He stood up and took his beer, alleviating Emma’s struggle to hold everything and keep it from falling. “The line was gigantic.”

“No worries, you made it just in time.” His lips formed a grateful smile as they went back to sit down, their attention on the game below only occasionally cut off when they took a sip from their cool cup of beer or a bite of the salty chips.

“If Tottenham scores one more goal, they’re through to the next round,” Killian told her about ten minutes from the end. “There’s a lot depending on this match.”

“Let’s hope it’s not an offside one like last time.”

“Aye.”

The tension in the stadium rose as the clock ticked on, closer and closer to that ninety-minute mark; the fans became louder and rowdier, asking—demanding—that that final goal be made so that they could all be put out of the agitated misery they were in.

The other team took ahold of the ball, the direction of the match shifting in a split second and its attackers breaking into a spurt which earned them loud booing from the Tottenham supporters.

Emma clenched her hands and bit her lips as they approached their keeper, their goal—when it had become an _us_ and _them_ thing, she didn’t know—her foot tapping the ground to somewhat get rid of the stress.

Come on, come on.

Number five ran like his life depended on it, stopping the attacker with a tackle Emma—who was far from an expert on the matter—thought was spectacular, perfectly executed as his foot shoved the ball out of the opponent’s possession and passed it over to one of his teammates. Everyone cheered, an overpowering unison call, and watched with their eyes glued to the grass.

Everyone, except Emma who felt her phone vibrate in the pocket of her jeans, her attention claimed by the call she was getting.

Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach as she saw the caller ID. It only said ‘G.’ but it told her enough about who was on the other side of the line. Killian’s blue eyes found hers, ignoring the game for a moment and silently asking if everything was alright.

“I have to take this call, it’s… work,” she answered and while it wasn’t a lie, it still didn’t feel okay.

“Oh sure, go ahead.” His prosthetic motioned towards the phone, before he turned back to the field, giving her privacy to answer the phone.

She couldn’t here—with the clamor and excitement of the match, with him so close. Her feet went down the stairs, leaving the tribune and bringing her back to the room where she went to get their refreshments, the emptiness in stark contrast to the bustle she experienced earlier during halftime.

In a hurry, she picked up the call.

“Hello?” she answered.

“That took a while, Ms. Swan.” The chagrin in his voice was palpable and it made Emma flinch. She couldn’t fuck this up.

“Sorry, Mr. Gold. I was… preoccupied.”

With watching a soccer match and having fun and laughing with the person she was supposed to spy on, the person Gold so desperately wanted dirt on for some reason. He wouldn’t appreciate it when he found out what “trailing Killian Jones” actually consisted of.

“Next time—” he said through clenched teeth. “—I’m expecting you to pick up immediately. This job requires number one priority. Or I’ll find someone else to do it for me.”

Her hands began to sweat.

“That won’t be necessary, sir. I’ll do as you ask,” she assured him, promised him.

She paced around the room, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor. Around and around, a circle that only grew along with her restlessness. One that spiraled as she did.

“I should hope so. You are aware of what exactly is at stake if you don’t fulfill the terms of our deal.” He used the silence to dramatize his threat and Emma had to admit it worked, the stress making her heart hammer. “I expect a report in two days and you better have something good for me.”

The words echoed in her ears, causing a painful ringing in her eardrum.

Too stunned to do anything for a moment, she listened to the dead connection, the incessant sound only aggravating the painful feeling she was experiencing. At last, Emma hung up, arms dropping as if the life had left them as well; she just barely managed to keep her phone from falling. Her eyes dropped to the floor, staring at the generic grey floor, at the sticky spots of beer and the discarded tickets, but not quite registering any of it, still too focused on the ringing, on the shock.

All of her surroundings began to tremble, the entire stadium shook as a roar went through it, bringing Emma back to reality. The reality where she was attending a soccer match with Killian and had left to take a work call—had left a considerable amount of time ago.

She hastened back to their seats. Which proved to be a struggle as it was madness once she came back to the tribune. People jumped and sung, hugged and yelled and all very close to her as she looked for a way to make her way back to Killian without getting clung on or showered with beer.

He spotted her from afar, had been searching for her, it seemed and reached out his prosthetic for her to grab, guiding her back to their spots.

“Swan!” came out once they were reunited. “We won!” he yelled joyously. “You missed the most incredible goal.”

And it seemed like it, Killian’s head softly shaking while he attempted to process it all, to grasp the concept that they had, in fact, won.

“God, the way Kane shot that ball,” he continued, “that was remarkable. No, astonishing even. I can’t believe you had to miss it.”

“It’s okay. I’m happy enough we won.” Emma tried to seem as elated as he was.

“You want to go celebrate once we get out of here? Have a pint?”

Emma’s face fell; she wanted to avoid such an obvious reaction but her expression changed before she could make sure that everything was in place, glued on and stuck in an eternal smile. This all felt very familiar.

Again, she was supposed to choose between the two paths.

This time, however, there was no doubt what she needed to do, Gold’s threats had left her no other choice. It had been a literal wake up call and while the dream had been pretty good, the morning after was terrible.

“Umm, pff.” She let a breath escape between her lips, her hand raking through her hair, pretending that she was actually considering it, that she hadn’t made her decision minutes ago. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty beat. Another time, alright?”

“Of course.” Killian smiled as he nodded, his eyes partially shutting and the close proximity made it possible for Emma to see his long eyelashes flutter with the movement. “I’ll drive you home.”

“Oh no, you shouldn’t,” Emma said, waving her hands. She was forced to step aside as people tried to pass, the encounter uncomfortable and edging into awkwardness. She approached Killian again who lifted his jacket off the chair and put it on. “I’ll just take the subway.”

“Emma.” His eyebrows rose, a stern and no-kidding look in his eyes. “I’m not going to let you take the Tube. I’ll drive you, okay? There’s no point in arguing.”

So she didn’t.

“Alright.”

Killian smiled, grabbing his empty cup and throwing it into the trash and then motioning towards the exit. Letting her lead the way. Something he appeared to do more often than not.

“Come on.”

She was quite amazed by his skill of finding his car in a dark parking lot amongst tons of other cars that stood beside it, but he did, the dark Toyota lighting up when his fingers touched the car key. He walked over to the left side, opening the car door for her to get in, mumbling something about being a gentleman that Emma didn’t quite catch as she seated herself in the comfortable leather seats. The door slammed shut and she watched Killian venture around the car, getting to the other side, her eyes following his path until he got into the car seat next to her.

He shoved the key into the ignition and clicked his prosthetic into the steering aid on his left side. He peered over his shoulder and backed out of the parking spot, asking Emma to type in her address into the GPS before they were well underway.

“I had an amazing night. Thank you,” she said once the car had stopped in the familiar environment of her apartment building.

She had, there was no point in pretending she hadn’t; even the unfortunate call on Gold’s part wasn’t powerful enough to overshadow all of tonight, to drown out all of the fun and enjoyment she’d gotten. The gratefulness was genuine, Killian didn’t have to take her there, he didn’t have to include her in something so precious to him. But he did, with pleasure if the way he’d returned all of her smiles said anything.

“Don’t mention it. It was my pleasure.” His lips curled briefly. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah.” Emma smiled. “Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix. Night, Killian.”

“Good night, Emma.”

When she took those final steps towards her door, breathing in the cold evening air, it sunk in how affectionate he sounded when she got out of the car. Then she realized how she had sounded the exact same.

-/-

It was difficult at first; it hurt her to see his worry grow with every text, his confusion increasing. He didn’t understand what had happened, didn’t get why she was suddenly not replying to anything he sent her.

He didn’t but she did. Extremely so. Going off the grid was the only way to prevent Gold from acting out his threats, keeping her distance was the only way to prevent Killian from getting feelings he shouldn’t get.

And while she was being brutally honest with herself, it was the only way to prevent her from falling in love with Killian Jones. They’d gone on a date, on three dates if she counted the ones they didn’t label as one and she’d enjoyed herself. Emma had laughed and listened and smiled and talked like she never had before and it was all because of him, because of his sense of humor and the genuine care and passion he exuded in all he did.

Leaving him was the only option.

So what if she was actually lying to herself, if the loneliness, the confinement away from him still hurt three weeks later.

It was over and it was about time she learned to deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeya! No, I'm kidding... Ummm sorry for that ending? I did promise angst and you're going to get it, so prepare... Updates on Thursdays as usual and you've got another 6K chapter to look forward to!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So one of the warnings comes into play here which is the mention/implication of alcohol abuse. This is a somewhat sad chapter which can be best described as hurt/comfort and which, together with the following chapter, leads up to a couple of very cathartic moments for both of our protagonists. I still hope you like it because I love it a lot.
> 
> Thanks to my co-members of the Holy Trinity™ @acourtoftruelove and @ofshipsandswans for helping me accomplish writing this fic, I owe the world to them. And Ruhi deserves a double dedication today because it was her birthday yesterday! Happy birthday again bbi <3
> 
> I was also very lucky to have one of the kindest people in the world offer her artistic services to this fic and make really cool art to accompany this story: @shady-swan-jones!

Her window was wide open, the street noise wandering up into Emma’s apartment; the slightly polluted air creeping into the room, the occasional droplets of rain splashing against her windowsill, some tiny fragments of water hitting her bare skin as she sat beside it, listening and breathing and watching the outside life.

The clock kept on ticking further, a steady beat in the background as its course moved unending. She’d been sitting there for at least half an hour, seeing the light first shift and then retreat, leaving carte blanche for the shadows to take over. The lampposts had lit up like beacons on a dark and treacherous sea, one last attempt to battle the twilight, to fight off the specks of danger enameling the dusk. The light across the street buzzed and broke, alternately bringing light and dark, eternally contrasting itself by living and dying again.

The air was getting colder, a gradual decline. The further the clock’s arrow went, another degree was lost, handed over to the night to ravage. She had attempted to defer it for as long as she could, using her hands to restore the warmth lost but Emma had no other choice but to grab herself a sweater to keep the goosebumps from consuming her.

Like her thoughts were.

She thought of her life, the years she had lived. Alone and with her friends.

Why did she feel like she had to leave? Why did that feeling have to re-emerge every time she felt comfortable, maybe even happy? That feeling as if two hands were wrapped around her neck, slowly and painfully tightening their grip, chasing out every particle of air, every last spark of life. And Emma had to escape, claw her way out of that asphyxiating grip whatever the cost was.

Which led to her losing friends time and time again.

She couldn’t quite explain how it felt, how she felt her throat closing up and how she struggled to breathe, explain it to people who saw nothing amiss, who chattered and laughed like usual. She could not tell the people she loved that they suffocated her. Because they’d take it the wrong way. They’d leave her before she could do the same to them.

Emma rested her head against the wall while her hands pulled the sweater’s soft fabric even closer, completely wrapping it around her body, knees and legs included. She closed her eyes only to open them again after a couple seconds. As she stared at the dark ceiling, a familiar burn tormented her.

She was lying to herself, had been for quite some time. Because her friends weren’t the ones suffocating her. The hands around her neck had her own pale complexion, her own slim fingers, that one scar on the bridge of her thumb she got while burning herself on the oven. It was a doppelgänger that was to blame. Or herself.

And escaping from herself proved to be more difficult than just skipping town.

_You can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another._

Ernest Hemingway had once said that and it had always felt like a call out, as if he’d written that specifically with her in mind, even though he’d died decades before she was born. It was the slogan her conscience loved to recite, a Jiminy Cricket voice in some back room of her brain showing up every time she booked a hotel room in some far-off state, searched for a new apartment, began scouring the web for some odd jobs here and there. It was a stuck CD, a track set on repeat that was her soundtrack as she drove towards a new destination, drowning out even the loudest of music, attempting to make her turn around, regret it. It never worked. She never looked back.

As Emma continued to battle the irritation of tears in her eyes, the rhythm of the raindrops outside began to accelerate, a hard staccato against the stone of the ledge. A mocking gesture from the universe. She was fighting so hard, trying to prevent the watery sensation and it had sent a deluge to drench her either way.

She became too preoccupied with stopping her apartment from getting flooded to continue with contemplating her life. She jumped up, leaving her temporary stone seat, and her bare feet landed on the floor with a thud. The window handle turned and Emma closed the window, the movement shutting the outside noise, rain, wind out.

So lost in thoughts, she hadn’t realized how dark her apartment had become. Floundering until her fingertips hit the smooth surface of the light switch, the rays of light filled the space again, filling every nook and cranny they went with a lighter mood too.

A sense of exhaustion, throbbing in the back of the head, overcame her. 

It was a respectable hour to go to sleep, Emma concluded.

But that conclusion was not supported by her body, tossing and turning, lying awake in her sheets. There was a tension, something different from the headache, keeping her awake, preventing her from relaxing and falling asleep.

She didn’t have to think long about what that tension could have to do with as it had started exactly twenty-five days ago, at the precise moment she had decided to start ignoring Killian and to stop lying to him. To do the right thing. Even if it was hard.

The first text of his right after the game, the message where he was still concerned about her well-being, her reassurances not being fruitful, got deleted. It was just a reminder of the person that he was, of how he did not deserve this. His act of kindness was the final straw for Emma to make her decision. And while it might seem cruel to him, she was doing him a favor; he just didn’t know how exactly.

The texts after that one sounded more confused but still that trace of worry braided into his sentences. They received the same treatment as the first one.

He attempted to call her as well. She didn’t pick up.

Eventually, he gave up.

But not before sending her one last message that said he understood, the words thanking her for the grand time he had with her, the sentiment wishing her good luck with all that she did.

Fuck, had she wished he hadn’t sent that.

It tasted bitter. A taste that would not leave her mouth no matter how many times she swallowed, no matter how many gallons of water she drank, no matter how much she attempted to tell herself it was the right thing.

Emma let out a frustrated huff when the odd tension ran up and down, swirled around, expanded and shrunk again. It was having a field day while all she wanted was peace. From her thoughts, from the stress. Just quiet and calm so she could slumber, finally get a proper amount of sleep, have her average of hours be something close to normal instead of close to insomniac.

Her phone buzzed and her eyes shot open. The notification had caused a beam of bright light to infiltrate the otherwise dark environment, drawing Emma’s eyes like a moth drawn to an equally bright flame.

She should ignore it; whatever it was, it could wait until morning, until she had actually received the sleep she so desperately sought. That would be the sane thing to do.

However, there were a grand total of two people who had her UK number: the man whom she was hired to trail and the man who hired her to do so. The former had also declared that he would not contact her anymore so that only really left the latter.

A possibility that eradicated all of the sanity she possessed—well not all of it, but a considerable part of it. Apprehension took its place, cooking up all sorts of theories that he had figured out her last three reports were laced and drenched with bullshit; Emma had absolutely no idea what Killian had been up to the last three weeks but her reports could not show that. So, she’d assumed he’d resumed life as it went before her, with the regular and precise trips and stops. But the unopened notification on her phone told her differently.

The light of her screen dimmed, the night engulfing the room anew but still, her eyes were glued to the spot where the light once was, the tension now joined by curiosity in Emma’s emotional brainpan.

She couldn’t even muster an ounce of willpower to ignore it all, her hand reaching for the night table and bringing the phone closer to her. After conquering the temporary blindness the overload of light had bestowed upon her eyes, she read the message.

And she was wrong. It wasn’t Gold; the other option could not be ruled out as a text—barely two words long—was what she had received. From Killian.

_Killian: you up_

Later, Emma would blame it on the relief that she had not actually been caught, on the jumble of emotions she’d gone through earlier that evening, on the brittle spark of hope the message brought to her somber heart. But she answered.

_Emma: Yeah._

The blue bubbles telling her he was typing appeared and kept on moving, making Emma furrow her brow. Shit, he had to be pouring his heart out. Maybe this was not a good idea, she shouldn’t have replied. Why didn’t she just forget about it? A new apprehension—a whole different kind than the one she experienced earlier—made itself known.

After a couple of extra tense seconds, finally, a new addition to the conversation popped up.

_Killian: im not good_

Before she could truly think about it, Emma shot up, her body instantaneously reacting to the words of distress. She worriedly stared at her screen, repeating the three words, again and again, analyzing the message. The Killian she knew would never have sent a message like that. He was a walking thesaurus, loved using flowery language **.** Normal Killian was a stickler for the rules, he had a deep affection towards grammar; it was his literal job. He barely even used abbreviations in his text, so yes, this was worrying.

She stared at her phone, worriedly nibbling on her lip. Her eyes went up, to the simple wall of her bedroom and remained focused there for a minute or so before reverting to the message on her screen.

What should she do?

The phone fell, its fall cushioned by her soft mattress and Emma’s hands slid into her hair, elbows digging into her knees as she sat and thought it through with closed eyes, attempting to find a solution.

But all she found was conflict, a battle where she was caught in the crossfire **,** unable to hide and protect herself from all of the confusion, unable to win, it seemed.

There were two opposite views: an angel on her one shoulder and a demon on the other. No, an angel and a demon were too extreme. Too black or white, too good or bad.

Her head and her heart were better representatives, more apt for the situation. The pair was a vital part of her, her guide in this tumultuous world. They’d never been so against one another before, however. Both were stained in a muted hue of grey, too faint to discern to which side they belonged, which way they would lead her, if they were the right choice or not. The thought that she’d made a decision, that she had to stay away for his sake, clashed with the feeling that he was her friend and that her friend was in distress, that he needed her.

Head or heart. Thoughts or feelings.

At least there was no doubt when it came to the angel and demon.

Feelings or thoughts. Heart or head.

This was left for her to sort out. To settle. To call a cease-fire.

In the end, there was only one decision she could reach, one she would not eternally regret making. It was as if someone had pressed play again after pausing her when she began moving, a hurry in how she did.  Emma grabbed her sheets and yanked them off of herself, her other hand busy with dialing his number.

“What do you mean: ‘not good’?” she said to him as soon as the call was picked up. She stilled in the middle of her bedroom, the only sound her frantic heartbeat and the rustle on the line.

“I’ve had too much to drink,” he slurred together. “I didn’t know who else to text.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

She shot back into motion, picking up a discarded pair of jeans that lay on the floor next to her laundry basket to cover her bare legs. The sweater she had used to ward off the cold earlier got put on again, along with a pair of socks.

“The Merry Men.” His answer was one big sigh which only quickened Emma’s actions to get ready to venture outside.

“I’m coming. Stay where you are,” she ordered before hanging up.

She rummaged her brain to make up a list of everything she would need; she wouldn’t want to go and save him only to miss something vital like her keys or her subway card.

Shoes, a jacket—no scratch that, she’d need a raincoat with the weather she’d experienced earlier. Her keys were stuffed into her pocket, wallet was safe in her purse. Her phone was currently experiencing a death grip in her hand.

Alright.

Emma was ready to leave her apartment, flicking the lights off and reaching for the door to close it, when she came to the conclusion she had no idea where _The Merry Men_ was situated exactly. And how she would get there.

That seemed like quite an important aspect of her going to go get Killian: knowing where he was.

Grumbling and igniting the lights again, she placed her bag on a chair and unlocked her phone. After consulting the internet—Google Maps, what a hero—she got a clear idea of where she needed to go and what line she should take to get there. It also provided her with a precise timetable of when she would get there, which was double as long as the time it would take if she had a car at her service.

Fuck, a car would be so much more convenient.

Now ready for real, Emma shut the door and headed downstairs, her footsteps a quick echoing stomping in the otherwise silent hallway. With a faster than usual pace, she made her way to the subway station, her stride accelerating even more as she heard the familiar sound of screeching iron downstairs featuring a female voice warning passengers about the ominous gap.

She ran down the stairs, skipping the last two steps with a jump and got into the carriage, the doors beeping and closing right after she did.

Man, she was really taking this whole savior thing seriously.

Even at this late hour, there were no seats empty so she stood, bracing herself on a handle as the vehicle began moving. Her feet nervously tapped, she couldn’t control it, much to the annoyance of people next to her. Emma obsessively checked the map, counting down the stations, the stops between her and Killian. When they finally arrived at the stop Google Maps Almighty told her to get off, she began to sprint as soon as the doors opened.

She reached the bar with a slight pant that reminded her again that she really had to look into a new gym membership. For a couple of seconds, she recollected herself, breathed in the petrichor air with her eyes shut, the oxygen exchange helping to summon courage. To face him after purposely ignoring him for the better part of three weeks. To see him after having her heart aching for him for all of that time.

After one last profound inhale, Emma’s eyes opened and focused on the door of the pub. That was all it was going to take: opening that door and walking up to him. She needed to do it. He needed her to do it. And so, she walked towards it, pushing it until it gave way for her and let her enter the congenial, somewhat dark, pub.

It didn’t take long to spot him, even with the lack of proper lighting, her eyes were instantly drawn to the miserable figure sitting on a stool by the bar. It seemed like a miracle that he hadn’t fallen off yet, by the way he sat hunched and inanimate.

Unceremoniously wiping the traces of sweat that appeared on her palms on the fabric of her jeans, she stepped forward. His back was towards her, his front facing the bartender who glanced towards him every ten seconds with a look of worry and sympathy, but, as he was busy wiping the counter with a towel, hadn’t noticed her yet. Neither of them had.

“Killian,” she softly said, approaching him and making the brown-haired bartender glance up.

Killian’s observation skills, however, were not as ample as his companion’s, his body remaining sprawled over the counter and his head only slowly—excruciatingly slowly if you asked her—rising at the recognition of her voice. His movements were delayed, it took him ages to turn around. All the while she stood there, bright green raincoat and awkward smile, mostly meant for the bartender as he was still the only one looking her way, in place.

Emma didn’t know what she was expecting when she saw him again for the first time but it certainly wasn’t this.

He looked a wreck. Head resting on the bar, eyes blotchy.

“Robin took away my keys,” he said accusingly and with disgust.

And if she was expecting his first words to be anything, it definitely wasn’t this either.

“Killian, you can’t drive like this,” the man in question attempted to argue, the frustration oozing over. He probably had had to say the same thing over and over, the logic and reasoning of his argument and feeble attempt at persuasion flying over Killian’s head altogether.

“I would’ve called him a cab—” Robin turned to her, letting the towel rest on the curve of his shoulder. “—but he wanted to contact you instead.” The man shrugged in apology.

“No, it’s fine,” Emma reassured him, casting another glance towards Killian, which only confirmed her next words. “It’s a good thing you did. Could I have his keys? I’m going to drive him home.”

“Sure.” Robin ducked beneath the counter and retrieved a set of keys. “Here you go.”

The keys were dropped into her open palm, the silver cold against her warm skin. Her hand transformed into a fist, safeguarding not only the keys but what they represented, the responsibility she carried in the grip of her five fingers.

“Thanks.”

“Take care of him,” Robin begged.

“I will, don’t worry.” She lifted her closed hand, nodding as it came into Robin’s view. It was meant as an assurance, to show she knew what was expected of her. Killian needed to get home, needed to be safe and she had to make sure that happened.

Robin looked somewhat relieved by the gesture as his lips moved into something that wasn’t exactly a smile, but was close enough.

Taking another look at Killian, Emma decided she would need two free hands to be able to get the mass of misery to even move an inch. The keys, therefore, were safely stored in the pocket of her jeans, before she walked closer. A conflicting fusion of hesitation and determination spread through her body with every pulse while she reached out to touch him.

“Come on,” she coaxed, helping—forcing—Killian to stand up and leave the barstool. He couldn’t stay here, which was why when he refused to work with her, when he attempted to work against her, she shifted her features from soft to stern, from helpful to commanding.

“Killian, get up."

It was an order, one he seemingly had neither the inclination nor the energy to disobey as he got up, only slightly with the strength he possessed but enough for Emma to support him and lead him out of the pub.

Robin cast one last glance, a look imbued with a question, but Emma shook her head. She could handle it by herself. 

She’d dealt with worse.  
  
At least Killian was still conscious, still aware of his surroundings. He hadn’t gotten too handsy or violent and she was grateful for it. Emma had experienced those before and it wasn’t something she looked forward to dealing with again.  
  
As they reached the dark parking lot, Emma halted and so did Killian, having no choice but to. She released him with one arm, broke the circle she’d made around his middle to dive into her pocket and take out his keys. Pressing the unlock button, his car lit up not too far from them, which Emma was very grateful for. By instinct, she walked towards the right side to depose Killian and swore under her breath as she saw a steering wheel where there wasn’t supposed to be one. At least, that was what she was used to. 

Fuck. Left driving. She’d forgotten about that part. 

Shoulders slumping in a sigh, she helped Killian circle the car to the correct UK side of the passenger, which was the easy part admittedly. The difficult one was getting him into the vehicle and buckling his seatbelt without either pulling a muscle or hurting him. 

“You could help me out here a bit, Killian,” she complained, her hands fiddling with the clasp of the belt.  
  
Finally, the releasing sound of a click reached her ears and Emma huffed in relief. The door closed with a bang and she rushed towards the other side.  
  
Left. Left. Left.  
  
She kept on repeating it, a mantra drilled into her head.  
  
“Why did you even drive here if you were going to get shit-drunk?”  
  
But now was not the time for blame. There was only room for determination and concentration. The extra addition to the steering wheel Killian used to drive might have been a helpful tool for him but was only a hindrance for her. She clicked it loose, laid it on the back seat and was ready to leave.

Until she realized she had no idea how to get to his apartment. She knew _where_ he lived, yes, but in the tangled web of London roads, it would take her hours to get there. Using GPS was an option too but dividing her attention between a tiny screen with directions and driving on the right—left—side of the road did not seem like a smart idea either.

Her eyes flickered to Killian’s slumped figure in the seat next to her, enough incentive to quickly reach a decision as he only looked worse than he did in the bar. He needed to be somewhere warm and quiet and safe as soon as possible.

Emma set the car into motion, the engine roaring to life and the headlight illuminating the lot with a flare of light.

“You’re going to have to stay at my place,” she said to him, sharing her decision but there was no reaction, only him staring into the distance **.** She would take his silence as a yes **,** besides she was the only one with a clear mind, if anyone should make the decisions, it was her.

The trip having gone as smooth as it could, except for one scary moment with a truck honking so loud her heart almost stopped beating, they reached her building. Emma resisted the urge to get down on her knees and gratefully kiss the path of stone tiles in front of her doorstep, promising herself she was going to stick to public transport from now on.

She supported him up the stairs, hobbling inside of her place. The lights flickered on and Emma placed him on the couch, huffing when the weight of him finally left her shoulders.

She moved towards the kitchen to grab him a glass of water and one for herself at that. The tap slowly filled it with clear liquid and only when a second one was filled, did she return to the couch and the man sitting there.

He absentmindedly stared at his feet, not even looking up at the dangling glass of water in front of him. Emma set the glasses on the coffee table and crouched in front of him, a last attempt to attain his attention. When she finally did, the urge to do a victorious fist pump surged but vanished again in an instant because of the sight before her. 

She saw the tears well in his eyes as they connected with hers, her heart clenching at the sight. God. Emma wanted to hold him, to magically make them disappear. But she wasn’t sure where they stood. How much her comforting would be appreciated once the alcohol had left his body and haze had left his mind.

So she settled for asking, making sure there was not one place their bodies touched.

“Killian, what’s wrong?” Her voice soft, almost like a mother speaking to her child. Though she doubted Killian would appreciate that comparison. She didn’t particularly like it either.

Killian’s irises, glazed over by a coat of tears, searched her face; for what, she did not know. He blinked, two tears simultaneously falling on his cheeks and two more immediately following, tracing the exact same path as their predecessors.

Whatever dam he had constructed that held the tears at bay in the pub was gone–broken and cracked. Much like his voice when he answered her question.

“It hurts.”

His first words in half an hour and they did nothing to assuage her worry. But they did make her give up her own resolution of not touching him. She came closer and worriedly assessed his body, looking for any cuts, scrapes or bruises coloring his skin but came up empty. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She’d rather the wounds were external, clear and obvious, because the alternative would prove to be more difficult to remedy.

She heard the sob overcome him, saw his face completely crumple, felt the slight trembling of his body.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’ll be okay,” she soothed, her hand moving across his back and tracing circles. It inched up and ended in his silken locks. He dropped his head, let it rest in the dip between her shoulder and collarbone. A wet patch gathered on the neck of her sweater but Emma didn’t pay attention to it. Her focus lay solely on Killian, on holding him and hugging him, the way her hand massaged his neck, the words of comfort she whispered into his ear.

Eventually, the tears stopped rolling. After a while, the sobs stopped coming. An hour passed and his body stopped shaking.

Only complete exhaustion remained in its wake.

It might’ve been his, or hers, or that of the both of them combined but it was there, present and unrelenting.

Emma sighed, her legs cramping from holding such an uncomfortable position for so long, and slowly released Killian, who had gone completely still. She would’ve believed that he was asleep if it weren’t for his eyes that were wide open, back to staring into the distance, a sorrow staining the cyan blue.

She didn’t dare to attempt to coax the reason of his anguish out of him, to find out what exactly was amiss, so she settled for a solution that had proven to work for her time and time again.

“Killian, you should get some sleep.”

They both should.

“Are you alright with staying on the couch? I can bring you some extra pillows, a blanket…” she drifted off.

Killian nodded. It seemed she wasn’t getting any additional words out of him tonight.

Emma went to the closet that contained her sheets and retrieved a spare blanket out of it. When she returned to the couch, Killian was laid flat on his back, eyes closed and breathing steady. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his shoes or wait for her to return with the blanket. 

She felt like crying in relief when the soft snore left his mouth, when the calm that hung around him at last was not interrupted. For a moment, the folded blanket got deposited on the corner of the sofa to free her hands. Softly, she pried the pair of boots off of his feet, setting them next to the coffee table instead. She eyed the prosthetic on his left arm and after some contemplation took it off as well, untying the straps. Killian let out a sigh and Emma took it as an unconscious approval of her action. Finally, the blanket got unfolded and draped over his body. She couldn’t refrain from combing her fingers through his dark locks one last time, moving a stray wisp away from his forehead. Her voice whispered him goodnight before she got up and went to her own bed.

When her head hit her pillow and her limbs got burrowed back into her sheets, she told herself it—the caresses, the tenderness, the… love—was only because he was in distress, because physical affection was the way to get a lot of people to calm down.

Because when she was younger and something deep inside her hurt—a pulsing pain aggravating—the only thing she wanted was someone to tell her she was alright. That it hurt now but wouldn’t always be that way. To hold her until the sobs subdued and tears turned into salty stains on her cheeks.

But no one ever had.

Instead, she had to learn how to comfort herself, how to hide the misery behind a mask, only to trust herself with it.

She didn’t want that for Killian.

He should have someone to trust, someone he could confide in. He deserved more. A better alternative than her, a lying no-good.

Here she was again. In his vicinity, unable to stay away from him, to stop caring about him.

God, she needed to stop feeling so sorry for herself. This was all her own fault.

In the morning she’d deal with the consequences, perhaps find out what exactly happened to Killian for him to be so distraught tonight. Though she doubted hearing the tale would help a lot with her conscience.

Attempting to release the tension in her body, the uneasiness in her stomach, she took a deep breath in and released it again in one go. It must’ve had somewhat of an effect because her eyelids began drooping, slowly reaching the sleep she sought for hours ago and was now blessedly in her grasp after the most tumultuous and reflective couple of hours Emma had experienced… probably ever.

Her eyes shut and with it, all of her troubles faded.

-/-

Only to come back with a bang once she woke again.

It might’ve taken her brain a few moments to catch up on current events but suddenly could not and was not thinking of anything but the man who had spent the night and presently occupying her couch.

Would he already be awake? With the amount of alcohol she presumed he had consumed, she doubted it actually.

Though, he had said something about being an early riser so perhaps that did come into play here. Wanting to be on the safe side, she got dressed, in clean clothes this time, and slowly ventured out.

While he was still lounged in the couch, the sound of Emma’s door closing made his head shoot up, over the edge, signaling that either he was a very—and she meant very—light sleeper or he was indeed awake already.

“Good morning,” Emma said with hesitance, not sure how bad his hangover would be, how he was going to be feeling after his breakdown yesterday. She’d stopped by her medicine cabinet to grab him some painkillers to help with the first problem, but the second… she still didn’t know how to help with that.

Instead of returning her greeting, Killian sat up completely, facing her with an expression that seemed way too solemn for so early in the morning.

“I’m sorry.”

Emma frowned, her head tilting as she regarded him. His hair was an even bigger mess than usual, a faint blue color under his eyes, his beard seemed longer than it usually was, to have outgrown the five o’clock shadow it normally was presented as.

“For what?” she questioned, even though she had a pretty clear idea what would cause him to apologize.

His whole body slumped as he let out a deep sigh, his hand burrowing into his hair as he disheveled it even more.

He purposely did not look at her, let his head drop and stared at his knees.

“Burdening you with this,” he mumbled.

In sympathy, Emma’s shoulders sagged. It was going to take a lot to convince him it was okay, that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Instead of awkwardly standing there, shifting her weight between her legs, Emma grabbed a chair from under the table and set it firmly on the empty spot across the couch. She’d best sit down for this talk and so she did, giving him enough space for himself but also close enough to make him feel she was there, that he was listened to.

“Everyone has an off day, Killian.”

She was having one herself before he had needed her, had had quite a few of those in the last three weeks.

Killian scoffed. “That’s graciously put.” The moment left as soon as it came and his features turned remorseful. “I shouldn’t have asked you, apologies. I’m aware you didn’t wish to see me anymore, so I’ll get out of your hair.” He made to get up. “You have better things to do.”

She didn’t.

Because this whole fucked up situation made it so that the man across from her was both the center of her professional life and her personal life.

“Killian, stay,” Emma responded. “I’m not going to kick you out.”

“You should.”

“Stay.” Her voice had become more firm, more resolute. “Eat something.”

She was really grateful and proud of her past self for going grocery shopping yesterday morning. All of her shelves were taken, the fridge was fully stocked. Luckily. It would’ve been quite embarrassing to not be able to offer him anything but two-week old Tesco wheat cereal she bought more for show to keep the cashier from judging her for her shopping cart only consisting of Cadbury bars and boxes of hot chocolate than for taste.

“Everyone has a past. I’m not about to judge you for yours—or how you cope with it.”

“You should. I try to limit the drinking, it’s a bad habit and leads to bad form, but sometimes it all becomes too much.”

“I get it.”

“But you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be forced to try and understand.”

“No, I get it, Killian.” Her eyebrows rose to emphasize. “Things becoming too much is exactly the reason why I stopped replying. I’m sorry to have hurt you.”

“It was your right to.”

Emma couldn’t figure out if it would’ve been worse that he was furious with her for blowing him off than how he was treating the situation now. As if he deserved to have his heart broken, like he was worth nothing and it was a given that she wouldn’t want to spend time with him any longer.

“No, it wasn’t,” she said in a strict voice. Strict on her for making him think that, strict on him for thinking he was worth anything less than he was. “And I feel bad about it.”

He looked at his hand, or rather the lack of it and looked at her, something having clicked about the combination of both her and no hand. He probably hadn’t thought of it before but she’d never seen him without before. Until yesterday when she took it off. It was a slightly startling sight, the scarred flesh, how she could discern the angry red indents of the prosthetic in his pale skin. It was something she hadn’t seen before but that was also where it ended. Because now she _had_ seen his stump, and now she did know wearing the prosthetic wasn’t very kind to his arm and she’d taken it into consideration. She had also seen how apt he was, how his prosthetic really had become a second hand. She forgot it sometimes, didn’t actually care but Killian didn’t know that by the looks of it.

“I took it off, I’m sorry if that wasn’t what you wanted. It just seemed more comfortable for you,” she explained, trying to maintain a balance of apology and justification in her voice. She did not want to raise the wrong conclusions.

But he didn’t let her know if she had succeeded as he glanced towards his stump one last time, his jaw clenching as he grabbed the appendage to reattach it. Once it was back in place, his expression became something more neutral. She guessed that he was done discussing the matter and she had a pretty good idea why, but decided not to press on, leave his demons to be dealt with another time.

“So this is your flat.” He looked around and Emma had to resist the urge to clean up, to rearrange her messy cabinet and to hide the dark discolorations on the grey wall next to the window.

“It is.” Emma followed his trail. “I’m sorry I brought you here instead of to yours, I just kind of panicked and thought it would be weird for me to roam around your apartment. Also, I knew where the painkillers are in mine and I’m guessing you need them.” Emma handed him the capsules she’d been holding in the palm of her hand for a while now, which he gratefully accepted.

“Thank you.” He lowered his head and it almost felt like he was bowing which definitely made her feel uncomfortable. “For the medicine and bringing me here. I’m in your debt.”

God, he was far from it.

“No, you’re not.”

Seeing the unswallowed pills in his hand, she suddenly realized he would possibly require water. So she left the chair she was sat on, entering the kitchen to grab him a glass. He accepted it with a blossom of a smile on his face, just the tiniest touch between their fingers, but enough for Emma to retreat, balling her fingers to try and squeeze out the tingling sensation.

“Yesterday was quite a valiant rescue mission, if I recall correctly.” Nurtured by the lighter atmosphere and dash of humor, his smile continued blooming.

He vacated a spot on the couch, removed the blanket and relocated his legs to make place for her to sit.

“That I have to agree with,” she chuckled as she sat down. “We both almost died once, but what’s an adventure without a near-death experience, right?”

“So that explains all of the swearing. You swear like a sailor, Swan.”

“One of my finer and more elegant moments, clearly.”

“As if you could ever manage to not be elegant.”

Her smile faltered, only a bit but enough for Killian to see it, notice it as his own was weakened too. Here they were again, bantering and flirting like nothing had happened.

He watched her, she watched him, neither doing anything but blinking, breathing and assessing, feeling each other out.

Until Killian’s lips moved. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

She couldn’t even pretend she didn’t feel the exact same, had no energy inside of her to keep up the lie.

“I missed you too,” she whispered back.

“Do you have somewhere to be today?”

Emma shook her head, eyes narrowing as she attempted to figure out where he was going with this.

“Could I take you somewhere?”

While she should need more information, more context to agree to something so vague, to commit to it, Emma nodded, her head making the movement before she could truly ponder over it. Overthink it and consider it to eventually decline like she normally did. But the earnestness in his eyes, the still rawness of the voice, strained by the emotion he showed yesterday drew her over the line.

That and the fact that she missed him the last three weeks. More than she sometimes could bear.

Killian smiled, another sign of genuine joy in the last five minutes, something she hadn’t seen in the twelve hours before, and a wave of tranquility washed over his expression.

“I’m going to go home and freshen up a bit and if it’s alright with you, I’ll come and pick you up in an hour or so.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Anything specific I need to bring?”

“No, just you would be enough.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading bbis. Might I persuade you in maybe leaving a comment? It won't make next Thursday appear sooner but it will most definitely make me happy :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing that we’re sort of dealing with the aftermath of the situation presented in the last chapter, the mentions of alcohol abuse warning still kinda applies to this chapter, but if you're worried it’s going to be as gloomy as last week, don’t worry, this chapter has some really good, tropey moments
> 
> Ladies and gents, I’d like to ask for an applause for my unbelievably incredible betas @ofshipsandswans and @acourtoftruelove for turning this disaster into somewhat of a success.
> 
> And make that applause a standing ovation to praise my artist @shady-swan-jones who has yet again made the perfect companion piece for this chapter (link will follow but, in the meantime, be sure to check out her blog!)

If she had timed it, Emma would’ve known that the oh-so-punctual Killian Jones was actually seven minutes early, his hair still damp from the quick shower he took, his breathing heavy from running the stairs between his car and her apartment at a fast pace **.** But, she was too busy thinking of him in general, a nervous tension as she considered what journey they were about to embark on. A journey that was unknown to her.

Two steady knocks sounded on the door.

She supposed that she was about to find out.

Pulling her thin sweater a little straighter and inhaling some additional oxygen, she walked towards the door. She stood before it for a few seconds, shut her eyes before grabbing the gold and rust embellished doorknob and moving it to open the door, to reveal him.

His hair was even more black, the normal dark now something akin to raven feathers, especially with the gleam coming off of the individual strands, with the tiny, almost imperceptible, droplets of water that clung to them.

The shower had done him good, she could see. Gone were the rigid and stiff movements from having to sleep on her couch, instead his shoulders hung loose. No more whiff of rum clinging to his skin, only a pleasant, fresh smell surrounding him. But the area where she could see the effects, the revitalization that had taken place the most, was his eyes. They were brighter, more alert, and it sounded so cliché but they carried their characteristic sparkle again.

“Hey.” She smiled, her teeth catching and releasing her bottom lip.

“Hi,” the greeting sounded out of breath. “All set?”

“I am,” she assured, her hands subtly patting her pockets to check the presence of her phone and keys before shutting the door behind them. They suddenly stood close to each other in her cramped hallway, Emma looking up to him, Killian’s hurried breathing stopping as he smiled at her.

Who would’ve thought breathing, something so natural, literally the first thing Emma accomplished in her life, would be so difficult to do at that moment.

“Let’s go,” she said, and it sounded only a little out of breath. “Don’t you have to work today?”

Mentioning or talking about work was a proven mood-killer. Yet, it didn’t bother Killian. Not at all.

“No,” he answered, lips still curved as he shook his head.

“How come?”

She hated herself for continuing to inquire, to hammer on the issue but this was the one thing she simply could not take or handle.

She thought it was the one thing until she saw Killian tense again, not a trace of the happy attitude that previously beamed. Consciously or not, he took a step back from her, his eyes leaving hers. This was not what she wanted to achieve; she’d managed to bring back the shadows. And while the heat was unbearable, so was the icy cold that now ran in her veins, the ice crystals that surrounded them made her yearn for warmth again. Nothing too extreme but just a flicker of warmth, to thaw the awkward silence.

“I took a long weekend. Friday, Saturday and Sunday off.”

The question whether he’d done that before or after last night rose. Emma considered it but with all the time they had spent together and all the time he had spent drunk, it was unlikely that he could’ve found a moment to call Elsa and request the weekend off; it would have to have been before. That meant that he had seen it coming, that he anticipated not being able to go to work. It definitely did not help, the worry that had been subdued resurfaced. For a second, she’d believed in the facade, in whatever excuse she had come up with to try and explain his previous behavior but now, what lay beneath the mask was not that easy to ignore. The image was branded into her mind and would not leave. Especially not when she saw it in his eyes, in the way he flinched, in how his hand just could not stop trembling.

His smile suddenly felt insincere.

“We best get going.”

She could only nod in agreement.

Killian’s black car—with which she was very familiar—was parked right in front of her apartment, so that they only needed to cross the sidewalk to reach it and be able to depart. Emma had to admit that she was awfully glad he would do the driving today. She cherished her life slightly too much to even attempt driving in London again.

They got into the car, both on their respective sides and buckled up, with only a few awkward looks that crossed before their eyes focused on the metal and plastic contraptions again. The turn signal ticked as Killian left the parking spot and they were on their way. She had no idea to where and, at this point, she was too afraid to ask and break the fragile silence. It was a matter of trust and even though it made everything a million times more different, she trusted him. Contrary to everything life had taught her, to what her brain told her, she’d trusted him from the moment she met him.

He trusted her, which made it unbearable.

The radio buzzed, hummed quietly in the background, the only sound in the otherwise silent car as they drove. And drove. And drove. Out of London city, out of the metropole and into a new county.

She glanced over to him, watched him out of the corner of her eyes and saw that the moment had passed again. Instead of trembling, his fingers tapped the rhythm of some eighties classic against the dark leather of the steering wheel.

“Okay. I have to ask the question: are you kidnapping me?”

“I know better than to kidnap you.”

Emma narrowed her eyes.

“Still doesn’t completely answer the question, Killian.”

His focus left the road before him and went in search of her.

“I am not.” His eyes and brow emphasized his words before returning to the highway ahead. “We’re almost there.”

Having finally received a hint about their destination, Emma let her eyes roam around, scanning every traffic sign for whereabouts they were and what—or better yet where—Killian’s ‘almost’ could mean. The only thing the boards told her was that they were close to Southend-on-Sea which only told her theme park.

“Are you taking me to Adventure Island, because when I said I liked adventure,” she said, the words mirroring those she uttered when they first met, when they were—more or less—strangers. “I didn’t quite mean it like that.”

“I know.” Killian rolled his eyes. “Now if you’d be so kind as to wait until we arrive.”

“You’re sure you’re not kidnapping me to Belgium or something?”

His look spoke volumes and Emma shut her mouth. The best decision in this situation—the situation where he was her only way of safely getting back to London. Patiently waiting and peering in silence, it was.

She could smell it before she could see it: the salt in the air, briny taste of it on the tip of her tongue.

The sea.

They left the highway and drove on smaller roads, Killian following a route that he apparently knew by heart because Emma could not figure out where he was going or what direction he was following. Until they drove towards a sign. It read Leigh-on-Sea and while she’d never heard of the town before, she had a pretty sure feeling what they were doing here. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. Especially when Killian parked, the sea noticeable in the distance. He motioned her to follow and with steady steps, he walked towards a tiny harbor, seagulls screeching above and something fishy—in the literal sense—in the air.

“Here we are,” he said, stopping in front of a small vessel. “I hope you don’t get seasick.” He turned back to her with alarm drawn on his face.

“Luckily for you, I don’t,” she replied, warily stepping onto the bobbing vehicle and attempting to regain her sense of balance. “How often do you come here?” she inquired once her body had grown used to the moving surface and she could focus on other things than not falling on her face.

“As often as work lets me. Off days, vacations.”

He brought the ship into motion, slowly but steadily leaving the port where it had been stationed and heading for open water.

“You know…” Emma let her words die out, drew them out in suspense to get his attention. It worked. Killian looked up from the crate he’d opened, his eyes expectant.  “This is the perfect place to kill me. International waters.”

Shutting the box again, he shook his head, maybe even rolled his eyes, she couldn’t really see.

“Why are you so obsessed with me doing something illegal and downright wrong? Is that the impression I give you? That I’m a criminal just waiting to strike?” he said jokingly, adding a slight edge to his words to attempt and scare her.

It didn’t work, though. Nothing could convince Emma that Killian was anything less than just a good guy.

“No, it’s not,” she sighed, her words carried on the wisps of wind that caressed her hair.

After going further out into the sea, it became windier, the air no longer a caress but harsh and unrelenting. The sudden whiplashes of her hair hitting her skin became too much for Emma to handle and she gathered the ends—a struggle with how they were flying in all directions—and wove the golden strands together into a steady and solid braid.

The wind had made it cold but the sun acted as a remedy, reheating Emma’s chilled skin.

They spent countless moments in silence, with only the breeze in their ears but Emma didn’t feel any need to change that, to begin a conversation about a random subject she could think of. Killian appeared to be deep in thought and she wasn’t particularly eager to force the both of them into a situation they’d rather not be in. So she would wait. Until he faced whatever it was he had to deal with. Until the silence would be too heavy to bear.

The ship began to slow down, the waves around them mere ripples under its weight. Emma looked back to Killian and saw him move away from the place he’d been solidified, stuck for the last hour or so. She was about to make a quip about how she was shocked he hadn’t turned into an actual statue but as soon as she saw his expression, the idea of humor seemed a very bad one. The silent but deadly storm behind his irises told Emma that Killian had faced the mysterious issue. That he was planning something. And with the steadiness he stepped towards her, she had a vague suspicion that it had something to do with her.

He didn’t know anything. He couldn’t. But the flashes of lightning in the glassy surface of his eyes sent bolts of fear through Emma, prickles that caused the hairs on her arms to stand upright. What if he knew.

What if that was the reason he was all dubious yesterday and brought her here today.

Shit.

Killian had, after what felt like years, finally approached her, the turmoil still very present in the way he stood and the way he looked. Emma cast her eyes upwards, her body not moving from the small bench she’d spent the entire sail on and her hands grasping the wood with all of her might, knuckles whitening against the strain.

“Is everything okay?” she dared ask, her voice almost normal, regular.

Killian sighed, a sound immediately swept away by the gust of wind but Emma was so focused on him, his body that she saw more than heard.

“We need to talk.”

“Okay…”

Running his hand through his hair, it stuck in all directions but he seemed too preoccupied to change it.

Killian stared at the floor, absentmindedly licking his lips, until his eyes found hers in a sudden movement, brusque enough to almost make Emma startle and gasp. But she locked their gazes, facing whatever was awaiting her, accepting the consequences of her decisions.

“In relation to yesterday,” he began with hesitation. “I feel that I do have to express my regret again. I should never have called—well, summoned really—you like that, forcing you to drop everything you were doing to take care of a drunk.”

Emma wanted to intervene, placate his words and the hard judgment he had on himself, but the relief mixed with confusion as to what he was planning to say, occupied too much of her brain to be able to.

He didn’t know.

She was in the clear.

“Now, while I know it won’t excuse my abominable behavior, I do believe you are entitled to know what exactly possessed me yesterday and why exactly I conducted myself the way I did.”

“Killian,” Emma finally said, “It’s alright.”

He shook his head, not willing to look at her.

“Emma, please,” he croaked. “Let me tell you this. I  _ need  _ to tell you this.”

And it was the absolute urge, the necessity to tell her in his voice that shut her up. She pressed her lips together, released the death grip on the bench and instead, clasped her hands together, watching him, silently telling him he could tell her and that she would listen.

She could see Killian’s chest expand as he took a big breath. His eyes stayed on the deck.

“I told you I used to live in Boston. I lived there for about seven years. I made the move when I had just turned twenty-five, I was looking for a bit of adventure instead of the boring, small English town I lived in. So I came to Boston and my older brother followed me. He claimed it was because he needed a change of scenery as well but in reality, I knew it was to keep an eye on me, to be able to be my older brother and protect me against all the evil in the world.”

She’d seen something mentioned about a brother in his file, but wasn’t he...

“Yesterday…” Killian took a breath, “marked the three year anniversary of his death. We had an accident, I lost my hand, he his life. Even after three years, the only way I can cope with the knowledge that he’s still gone, is to drink myself into oblivion. ”

She had no idea it was this bad, that it still hurt this much to him. That the cause of the bloodshot eyes, the tears, the excessive amount of alcohol was because he was grieving, mourning the loss of his brother three years prior.

If that was how he conducted himself after three years, Emma was afraid of what he had done in the past, how he attempted to cope with the wounds fresh and stinging, with the trauma so recent.

There was a slight tremor to her hand as it approached his vicinity. She’d done the exact same yesterday night, only a couple of hours ago, but he was drunk then and would not think twice about it, perhaps wouldn’t even remember the instance. There was no haze now, his observant eyes tracking her every movement, following as she came closer and closer, first about mere inches between them and then nothing, the warmth of his cheek radiating on the soft skin of her palm.

“It’s okay,” Emma whispered roughly, the emotions mingling with the sea air affecting her too.

She drifted towards him, the distance between their bodies shrinking. No idea what her body was planning, Emma moved. Her left hand joined the tender touch, finding a temporary home on Killian’s other cheek, protecting it from the sweeping wind.

The smile that appeared on her lips was encouraging.

But it didn’t seem to help Killian. On the contrary **,** the tears sprang from his eyes and she had no doubt on whether they were created by the harsh winds outside or by the sorrow inside.

He deserved some comfort. Something more than simple words and smiles. So she removed her hands from his cheeks and lowered them before taking that final step and wrapping them around his shoulders. Killian was stilled by the hug and seemed hesitant to move. Emma, head burrowed in his shoulder, tightened her grip, silently encouraging him and, sure enough, Killian’s arms returned the gesture. First they hesitated as they touched her but soon they found their place, daring and welcoming.

A weight settled on the top of Emma’s head and she guessed it was his cheek.

They stayed like that for some time, embraced in each other’s arms, sharing and giving support and extracting strength out of their unison heartbeats, their unison breaths. It soothed, calmed how they stood still and how, when they moved, it was in sync. Her thoughts stopped racing, became less rushed, and his less sad, if she read the signs correctly.

They could’ve remained like that for far longer if it depended on Emma, but a cold drop on the bridge of her ear alerted her. She had decided to ignore it but then another one fell on the back of her neck and another one on the edge of her wrist. Splashes of freezing water continued to attack them. Killian slowly released her, a distrustful look in his eyes as they left her and shot to the sky. The sky that was previously blue but now bore a dark hue of stormy grey.

“That doesn’t seem good,” Emma said.

“It isn’t,” Killian confirmed in a voice more steady than it was in the previous twenty-four hours combined. He stepped away from her and back to the helm. “We should head back as soon as possible.”

He shot into action and hoisted the anchor.

“Can I help?” she asked, feeling useless while he was doing all of the work.

“I think I’ll manage for now.”

This was Captain Jones, it showed that when he previously had tried to depict sailing as a mere hobby, he was considerably downplaying it. Killian knew what he was doing, might even be considered an expert. So Emma couldn’t do more than agree and let him and his expertise be at work.

“Okay.”

The occasional drops began to fall quicker and quicker. Emma damned herself for not bringing a jacket, this was still England, why did she not see this coming? Rain was almost a national symbol here.

Her hair started to clump together, her braid dissolved by the combination of wind and rain and the force it exuded **.** It stuck to her face and Emma, grunting in annoyance, wiped it away along with the excess water that stung in her eyes.

Things were getting bad.

“Killian,” she yelled towards him as he handled the helm. “Need any help?”

She’d asked it before, but in the last ten minutes, the weather conditions had only gotten worse, more serious, more dangerous.

“Could you take over for a moment?” He shouted back, sending Emma into motion, her moment of uselessness finally over. She was by his side instantly and he grabbed her hands, placing them on the exact spots his had been.

“Just hold it like this,” he told her, before running to the opposite side of the vessel.

She did as he ordered, her hands tightening against the wood so much that she felt the protest of the muscles there, the tremble of strain that afflicted them. Her hands began to hurt but she wouldn’t let go, Killian had told her to hold on and she’d be damned if she didn’t do exactly that.

Having done what he needed to do, Killian returned and took over again, releasing her from duty with a thankful nod. Turning her palms upwards, Emma stared at the red and angry lines in the shape of the helm marred into her palms. Water gathered on the surface, ran in the grooves of her hands. The icy drops were soothing against her chafed, almost burnt skin.

“Give me your hands,” he asked, noticing her discomfort but how, Emma didn’t know. His eyes were still stuck watching the horizon.

There was nothing more than what he said, no exclamation, continuation or reaction. Perhaps he was waiting for her to confirm she had indeed hurt herself but Emma didn’t. Blame it on the concentration of cold falling out of the sky that froze her body, that, except for the shivering, brought her to complete immobility.

“Emma?”

Killian broke his stare, eyes moving away from the view and shifting to her. He broke her out of her transfixion as well, Emma inhaling cold air and shaking her head, wet tresses moving along.

“Your hands.” A step away from the helm, a step closer to her. “They’re hurt. Let me help you,” he said gently, his hand lifting her palms to his face.

“No, no it’s fine,” she refused, pulling it out of his touch, the warmth immediately gone, only a ghost of a feeling.

It was more important to move, pace around the vessel to chase away the cold that had settled into her bones. Heat was what she needed and the quickest way—the only way—to reach that was to get to land, to get off of this freaking boat that was in the middle of the ocean and in the eye of the storm. Their return would only take longer if Killian worried about her hands and on the dilemma of staying there longer to have her hands tended to and returning faster; well... Emma didn’t consider it a dilemma at all.

“No, it’s not,” he persisted, his train of thought differing from hers.

Casting a glance back to their oncoming path and seemingly content with and in control of it, Killian jogged—more like power-walked—across the deck, his arms out to balance himself on the slippery wood.

Out of one of the crates on deck, he retrieved a red little packet bearing a white cross. With his teeth, he pulled the zipper, one smooth movement until the kit opened and he was able to pick out, with some consideration, one of the items inside.

“What’s that?” Emma asked, eyeing the unmarked, generic white tube as Killian came back to her.

“Aloe Vera,” he replied before using his teeth again to get rid of the cap. “A bloody good invention, if I may say so.”

He squeezed a blob of clear substance on both her palms before his finger generously rubbed it over the red patches.

“Oh.” It stung but then it didn’t. She hissed but then she sighed. There was only coolness and relief, her palms at ease. “That’s better.” She looked up from her palms to Killian, who smiled before returning to the helm. With only a slight nudge, his prosthetic adjusted the wheel into a better direction.

“You’re shaking.” Another observation, almost an exact copy of the one he had before.

And she  _ was  _ shaking because her thin clothes were completely drenched with a deluge of icy water.

He began to take off his jacket, first one arm then the other, slowly as his concentration still lay on the shadow, the blur of the town in the distance.

“No, Killian.” She wanted to stop him. He’d done enough. “I'll survive.”

She wasn’t some damsel in distress that needed rescuing and coddling from her knight in white shining armor.

But he wouldn’t listen.

“I don’t doubt that but there are more pleasant things than catching a cold.”

He placed the black jacket over her shoulders and Emma had to keep herself from burrowing into the warm inside of the fabric, to wrap it even tighter around her. She looked up at him, the clacking of her teeth momentarily stopping, raindrops continuing to run along her skin. With a smile she would categorize as either one of amusement or one of endearment, he tucked—caressed— a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “Besides.” He cocked his head. “It would be in all of our best interests that you don’t get sick.”

Before she could think twice about his somewhat confusing statement, they reached the shore. He stepped away from her, the loss of his warmth and presence immediate even though he barely moved further than where he stood before. They moored, Killian taking the heavy rope and throwing its loop around a dock post **,** where it landed with a heavy thud. He tightened it, pulling them closer to land, closer to shelter from the storm.

Not that she didn’t trust Killian as a captain, but when they finally reached the safe entrance of the harbor and came to a stop, she let out a big sigh.

“We should head somewhere warm,” he suggested, stretching out his left arm and offering her his prosthetic to help her get off the boat without any accidents.

“I agree,” Emma replied, accepting his help and hesitantly daring to place her feet on the slippery deck, one before the other.

“Where do you wanna go?” Killian scoured the streets in search of life but it seemed that with the dark shadow the clouds had cast, the people had all vanished, retreated into their warm and safe homes—who could blame them.

“I don’t really want to stand here and debate this and continue getting drenched. Let’s go in the first open store we spot and go wait out the rain,” Emma proposed and they began walking.

The first open store was a newspaper shop of sorts and they didn’t even need to look at each other to confer before pushing the door open, a little bell ringing as they did.

“Good afternoon,” an older man greeted them as he appeared from the back. He looked about fifty, grey hair with a slightly wrinkled skin. “Blimey, the storm got you good,” he continued once he’d taken a better look at them.

“Aye, it did. We were sailing when it hit, but got back rather quickly.”

“Then you were bloody lucky. The storm is only going to get worse.”

As if to emphasize his words, the whole place lit up as lightning struck, the rumbling of thunder following not soon after. Bloody lucky indeed.

“Really?” Killian didn’t seem to be aware.

“Didn’t ye check the weather forecasts? Why do you think the place is deserted on a Friday?” Killian and Emma looked at each other. There was a point to his words, no other day-tourists, no other boats on the water. “It’s pretty bait that it was going to storm today.”

“We were slightly preoccupied before we came here and everything seemed fine in London,” Killian admitted with a grimace. “Do you think it’s a good idea to drive back?”

“Back to London? If I were you, I’d just stay here and not chip off. It’s going to be hell to drive in this and I think it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Aye, I agree.” Killian nodded.

“My cousin’s got a B&B not too far from here, if you want I could ring her to check if she’s got something free,” the man proposed, motioning towards a cell phone behind the counter.

Blue eyes drifted to her, silently asking her opinion on the situation.

“Yeah, that would be great.”

“You’re alright with staying?” He asked again, his voice low almost as to shield it from their other company; it was an attempt to make this about only the two of them.

Of course Killian had to make absolutely sure that she was on board, that this was what she wanted, he wouldn’t be Killian if he didn’t. It was one of her favorite things about him, actually. The moments he gave her to think about things, to consider offers and answer questions. To clear her mind and weigh options. There was no rush with him, only patience and that was something crucial when interacting with her.

“I’d rather not drive back when it’s dangerous,” Emma answered, to both the offer and Killian’s question. “I don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow so it’s fine.”

“Yeah, it’s better like this, innit,” the man agreed, his hand grabbing his cellphone. “I’ll go and ring Maggie.”

The B&B Don’s—which was how he was named, they discovered—cousin owned was quaint and little, furniture crammed into the welcome hall/ living room but all with a preciseness to it, with not one table set crookedly and not a single couch that did not match the rest of the decor. Its owner had spent a lot of time to make it feel like home, to take away the generic hotel feel and replace it with personality, with warmth. Something Emma could really appreciate. Both the literal and figurative kind. Luckily for her, the heating system was on at full blast, the rigid goosebumps on her skin finally able to relax and disappear under the pleasant gulf of warm air.

The tremors raging over her body, however, would need something more powerful to be suppressed.

“Oh poor dears,” a voice broke the silence. Emma and Killian looked up at the same time at the woman behind the desk. She was well past her youth but carried a glimpse of youthfulness in the way she smiled. It was innocence and kindness intertwined. “You look positively miserable.”

“Miserable is somewhat of an exaggeration, but aye, we’ve been better,” Killian replied, approaching the woman.

Emma herself went to sit down in a chair, her limbs aching from the icy cold and requiring some rest. She trusted Killian enough to handle whatever needed to be handled. There was not a lot to be done as she waited; she hadn’t brought anything but her phone so she resorted to playing Candy Crush while the muffled tones of conversation continued.

Maggie suddenly laughed out loud, startling Emma as she looked up from the bright candy on her screen to see the woman looking positively charmed and smitten, batting her eyes at Killian while her hand reached over to cover his.

Emma furrowed her brow as she attempted to assess the situation, figure out what exactly she was witnessing, what the touches and smiles and the hushed tones meant.

A conclusion wasn’t hard to reach.

Maggie was flirting with Killian. Maybe not actually flirting, more like some innocent alternative but there was definitely something happening at the counter across the room.

To keep herself from doing something stupid—start laughing, for example, or rudely interrupt—Emma focused back on the game on her phone, her fingers swiping across the screen to make matches, a burst of satisfaction each time it was successful.

Soft footsteps resonated on the thick, red carpet that adorned the B&B’s floor and stopped right in front of her, two feet visible under the rim of her phone. She didn’t look up, however, not until Killian cleared his throat to request her attention.

He smiled when she gave it to him, which frustrated Emma even more, in addition to the creaking noise of him bouncing on the ball of his feet was currently garnering.

“Maggie went to fetch us the key of the room.”

She peered through narrowed eyes.

“Is hitting on older women a new hobby for you?” she questioned with just that hint of a sneer in her words.

She wasn’t jealous. It was just very inconvenient that he was having a jolly old chat with the woman while she was internally freezing and felt the exhaustion looming inside of her.

The hint might’ve been slightly more than that because Killian’s giddiness was hampered, his feet stilled, the creaking stopped.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it hitting on, more charming her,” he stipulated. “A tactic that made her let us stay for free.”

Guilt ebbed, drowning out any resentment towards his stalling and chatting. Guilt and amazement. Which was an odd combination, she had to admit.

“No way,” she half-whispered, half-shouted, courtesy of that odd mix of sentiments inside of her. “If that’s the case, I should say sorry.” A twitch of her brow showed how sincere it was supposed to be, how she was silently adding another layer to the apology. Killian reached out his prosthetic, a gentleman’s gesture to help her gracefully get up from the sunken chair. A gesture Emma assumed was Killian silently accepting her unspoken words and forgiving her for them.

She grabbed ahold of the hardened plastic, still slightly wet from the downpour, and got onto her feet. Her hand lingered on the appendage longer than necessary, but either Killian hadn’t noticed or chose not to comment on the way she snatched it away once she had.

“Who knew your good looks would come in handy one day?”

It was an offhand comment, muttered between an inhale and an exhale but that didn’t keep him from reacting.

Killian’s eyebrow soared, right to the border of his forehead and would’ve gone further up if it could.

“Do tell me more about my good looks, Swan.”

It was as if he wanted to give her a clear example of what flirting consisted of in Killian Jones’ book **.** The only problem was that Emma didn’t know if he was being sincere, if he was doing it for her, or barely to set the record straight. To defend his reputation.

Before the piercing gaze and the heavy silence between them could answer her conundrum, Maggie returned, a key dangling between her fingers.

“Here we are,” she said, “This is for you two, the room is on the first floor.” Killian accepted the key she handed him. “It should be quiet for the rest of the evening, not a lot of guests present when the weather is so tragic. Breakfast will be from eight to ten and I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. I’ll give you two some peace.”

“Thank you, Maggie.” And the smile that appeared on Killian’s face could only be described as roguish.

It visibly had its effect on their hostess, who giggled and made a gesture for him to stop before leaving them alone. Emma could only roll her eyes.

He let her lead the way, so she stepped on the creaky stairs that led them to the first floor.

“Room 5,” Killian shared with her and she walked until she reached the door that had a large brass number five nailed to it. He slid the key into the lock and it clicked open, granting them access to their home for the night.

“Oh.” The lights went on. “There’s only one bed.”

A queen-sized bed stood in the middle of the room, an ancient looking quilt covering the better part of it. Emma scanned the rest of the environment, searching for a tiny additional bed, a fold-out couch, anything. But there was nothing to be found. Except for one bed.

“I’ll go and search for the proprietor, I will return right away,” he announced, turning one hundred and eighty degrees and leaving the room, leaving her alone.

Shrugging off Killian’s jacket and folding it over a chair that stood under a massive desk in a corner of the room, she sat on the edge of the bed. The door leading to the bathroom was ajar and she could see the shower, ogled its display, yearning to get in there, to let the burning stream of water wash away all the salt, the cold, the feelings.

He had said that he would be right back, however, and maybe they would get a new room assigned so it would be quite rude to already claim this one, to claim its shower. So she waited, toying with the wet hem of her sweater.

And waited.

Long enough for her to grow worried about where Killian was.

Did he get lost? The place wasn’t that big, so that was unlikely.

Did Maggie detain him and lock him into some shady room? No, the woman did not look harmful at all, so chances that she would be capable of that were minimal, no matter how much of a crush she had on Killian.

Then where the hell was he?

She had just reached the decision to leave the room and venture out in the search of him, got up from the comfortable bed and stepped to the door to go out, when it swung open. Emma startled and did not have enough time to stop walking, to take a step backwards when Killian entered which led to the both of them almost comically crashing into one another. He attempted to stop the collision by lifting his arms but they were slowed by the things he held in them.

An unceremonious  _ umph _ left her mouth.

“Sorry for the wait.” Killian shook his head, drops of rain flying from the dark locks and some hitting Emma’s warm skin.

Did he go outside again?

“Dude,” she said, the term deliberately chosen to chase away the sensation of romance that danced around them and swap it with camaraderie, a joking tone to get rid of the tension. The back of her hand hit his chest. Friendship, banter and nothing more. “I thought Maggie had kidnapped you or something.”

“Kidnapped me?” He laughed. “No, there’s no trace of her actually. It feels like we’re completely alone here, but I thought it slightly too drastic to nick one of the other room keys.”

“True. We’ll have to make it work,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment from showing. She smiled but it probably looked as fake as it felt, as fabricated as it was. Her eyes searched for a place to land, anywhere but his and eventually settled for the plastic bag Killian had in one hand and the paper one that was hung on his prosthetic. “What’s in the bags?” It was an obvious diversion, an attempt to divert attention from her uneasiness to safer territory, to a mundane thing that did not include voicing all of the emotions that were currently darting through her body. Baring her soul was something she could do without.

He lifted both the paper and the plastic bag and set it on the bed.

“I went back to Don’s shop and bought…” His hand delved inside the plastic bag. “...some spare clothes so we can shower and let our clothes dry.” Now, it was the brown bag’s turn. “I bought some food as well because I am quite frankly starving and I thought you might be too.”

“You thought correctly,” she answered immediately.

Besides the breakfast they had had at her place hours ago before they left, she hadn’t eaten anything. They were too busy, too on the move for food. First the drive to the coast, then the sail, then actively trying not to die and end up in a seaman's grave. It was all very demanding and Emma could use a replenishing of her energy.

But then she felt how her hair was drying with knots in it and she smelt the sea on her and suddenly the smell wasn’t rejuvenating and nice but only disgusting.

She needed a shower first.

Killian’s hair was still dripping, his sweater, though black, was clearly wet too. Of course, because he went out again without his jacket because she was hoarding it. His cheeks, nose, and the tips of his ears were all colored in a faded red, sign that he was cold too. He might pretend he was immune to it by offering her his jacket but that faint color told Emma differently.

He needed a shower first.

“If you want, you can go ahead and take a shower first. I can wait a bit longer.” Emma shrugged.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Thanks, love.”

Had he called her love before? She knew it was almost a stereotypical British thing to do but she couldn’t remember him calling her that. Oh no, this was definitely not helping with the whole ‘burying your feelings and pretending they don’t exist’ operation. If anything, it brought the almost feverish sensation back to the surface, made her cheeks heat and flush.

She heard the soft thud of the bathroom door and let herself drop on the bed again, releasing all of the air out of her lungs in one go. Her hands clasped over her abdomen, curls spilled over the bedspread.

For being in the midst of denying her feelings for Killian Jones, having to share one bed with said Killian Jones was quite unfortunate. It was almost as if the universe was trying to send her a sign. Was the universe being her wingwoman? Either way, it could not happen. Things were complicated enough as they were.

She didn’t know how long she lay on the bed considering everything, but it had to be long enough for Killian to shower as she heard the bathroom door open again. She sat up, leaving the soft surface of the mattress. Only to see Killian bare-chested, with a tiny white towel wrapped around his waist. His skin glistened from the shower, his hair was swept across his forehead. Emma, however, could only focus on the athletic planes of his chest, dusted over with a healthy amount of chest hair. He wasn’t overly muscular and it didn’t look like he spent a lot of time in the gym but there was absolutely no need for it. She could see the effects of sailing in the bulge of his arms, the strength of his shoulders, in how effortless it looked. Yeah, that was definitely not helping either.

“Sorry,” he said while grimacing. “I forgot to grab my dry clothes.”

Clearing her throat and shaking her head to leave her current state of drooling over his body, she spoke. “No, no, it’s fine.” She jumped up from the bed, averting her eyes as much as she could. Her hands grabbed her own set of clothes, handed Killian his while her feet ran into the bathroom,  the door shutting and locking before he could even respond. She slumped against the door and cringed as she thought of what had just taken place. She seemed like a pubescent girl who’d never seen a half-naked guy before. She had, for the record. Even fully naked.

She did have to admit that it had been a while and definitely no one who even came close to how attracted she was to Killian, the others were just to scratch an itch but she knew it would be different with him. This smoldering desire deep in her core would not die down once they couldn’t resist the temptation anymore; it would only continue to simmer asking for more fuel, more air, more him.

She made the water ice cold once she got in the shower.

-/-

Maybe that cold shower hadn’t been the best idea, because she could not stop shivering, her teeth chattering as she ran a complimentary comb through her hair. At least there was no more salt stuck to her skin and no more knots in her hair. Emma grabbed the set of clothes Killian had bought and put them on, extinguishing the light of the bathroom and returning to Killian.

“The most sofishticated girl?” she asked once she saw him. “Really?” The words were printed on her pink cotton shirt in an even pinker swirly font.

Killian sat up from the bed, laying the phone he’d been busy with aside.

“It was all they had, Swan.” He began laughing once he saw her, fishes and all. “I promise.”

Emma had to purse her lips to keep herself from joining him in the laughter.

“I don’t believe you for one second, Killian Jones.” He seemed to be wearing a similar shirt, his a long sleeve in baby blue instead of pastel pink. “What does yours say?”

“The clam before the storm,” he proudly displayed.

“Fitting.” And she finally laughed, not even wanting to attempt and keep it in anymore.

Killian moved from his previous place in the center of the mattress, claiming the entire bed for himself, to one of the sides, giving Emma her fair share of the queen-size. She sat down, curling her legs beneath her.

“Food?” Killian asked.

“Food,” she agreed with a nod.

He fished the brown bag from off the ground and set it between them, gently pouring the contents out on the comforter. Emma curiously looked at what he’d bought.

She gasped as she saw the purple colored container and lifted it off the bed.

“You bought Pringles?” Her face lit up as she showed the cylinder to Killian.

“Yes and even the horrendous prawn-cocktail you love so much.”

If she hadn’t just had a whole internal monologue that ended with the conclusion that no matter how much she lusted after him, Killian was off-limits, she would have kissed him. The man knew the way to her heart.

He’d also bought a couple of sandwiches, a packet of digestives, and a large bottle of orange juice.

“Let’s dig in. ”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

-/-

Stomach full, Emma let herself fall down on the bed completely, a thud following in its wake. She was just about ready to go to bed, the near-death experience and long time spent on her feet catching up with her.

She looked over to Killian’s side, assuming he’d be as, if not more, tired than she was and he’d be half-dead lying in bed already. But he wasn’t, he sat on the edge of the bed uncomfortably wriggling with something that she couldn’t see.

“Is everything okay?”

He turned around and it allowed Emma to see where the issue lay.

“Would you mind if I took my prosthetic off?” he asked. “I know the sight isn’t very pleasant and I’d get it if you’re not comfortable with-”

Emma didn’t let him, didn’t even want to let him finish the sentence and sentiment he was currently expressing. “Killian, take it off.” Her voice an order but gentle.

He didn’t reply but went straight for the intricate straps that granted him a new appendage, untying it with an impressive speed. It had taken her at least twice as long and she still had both of her hands. She saw him slightly turn away, hiding his actions again.

The prosthetic got placed on the bedside table before he settled into bed. The sleeve of his shirt had been stretched out to hide his blunted wrist, and as Killian arched his back, he even tried to hide that.

“You don’t have to hide it, I’ve seen it before, remember?”

He looked at her through his dark eyelashes and she nodded, encouraging him even more.

He rolled up the blue sleeve until it hit his elbow, revealing the mostly smooth skin and the one scar that ran across it. Her eyes stayed on his, though, as she smiled at him.

“You want me to do the other too?” she said, gesturing towards the longer sleeve on his right hand.

“Would you?”

Of course she would. Emma got onto her knees and crawled to his side of the bed, the mattress sinking under her weight. She took his outstretched arm and folded the shirt upwards until, just like the other, it hit the crook of his elbow. “Perfect,” she commented, giving him a tiny squeeze before going back to her own side and crawling under the covers.

Killian followed her lead and once the sheets stopped rustling she clicked the nightlight off.

Peace settled around them, a cocoon of calm in the eye of the storm, flashes of lightning, rumbles of thunder. She should let it be, let him be and finally have some proper rest after the tumultuous twenty-four hours he had had. But she also wondered about the incident Killian had presumably lost his hand in. And about the man he’d lost alongside with it.

“What was your brother’s name?”

“Liam.”

“Will you tell me about him?”

No response, only silence and for a moment, Emma thought he’d fallen asleep, so exhausted by the last twenty-four hours that he couldn’t keep his eyes open once he lay in a comfortable bed. Until his steady breathing was interrupted by a sigh, a rustle as he shifted in the bed and turned to face her.

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats you made it halfway through this fic! There's still a lot (A LOT) to come so hold on to your horses because it's going to be a crazy ride starting now. Also, if you were anticipating some smooching, sorry I didn't make them kiss, both Emma and I had moral problems with it :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're back to shorter chapters and you're probably going to yell at me for it so... I already apologize in advance? There are hints towards some sexual content here but nothing worthy of calling M.
> 
> I'm not American but I am very thankful for my online besties and the best betas a girl could wish for @acourtoftruelove and @ofshipsandswans
> 
> And also very grateful for my artist @shady-swan-jones Sophie has made four amazing picsets with which I couldn’t be happier and of course her pretty banner I have the honor of using on every Tumblr post. Big love.

Emma walked across her apartment, heading for her desk and the metal cabinet that stood next to it. Pulling open the second drawer, she grabbed a maroon folder out of it. She leafed through it, through what was her personal version of Killian’s record, aspects of his history. A summary of how his life had gone and was currently going. She removed the pictures of him, unguarded and unsuspecting in the distance, taking them in, the uncomfortable feeling settling in her stomach. Causing ache there. After what happened two weeks ago, she’d been thinking more. Struggling more.

He was so open with her, so kind and real. What could she offer him in return? Lies and half-truths?

Emma bit her lip, looking at the file as if she’d seen a sad movie, as if she could see in bright color and vivid detail how this all would play out on the cover of the hard paper. A tragedy waiting to happen.

Maybe she should just move back to Boston.

She’d be out of Gold’s reach and out of Killian’s vicinity as well. Gold would not be able to hurt her or her career and she would not be able to hurt Killian.

But that left Killian to fend for himself.

And Gold to take out his anger on Killian.

She couldn’t leave. No matter how much she wanted it.

She’d put herself into this situation and she wasn’t going to quit before she found a solution that would benefit them both, that minimized the hurt that came their way. A clean shot without any casualties, without collateral damage.

She owed him that much.

The guilt in her stomach was making room for actual hunger, a low whirring inside growing into a loud groan before Emma realized it had been hours since she’d last had a meal. So consumed with all of her troubles that she’d forgotten to take care of herself.

Her socked feet walked towards the fridge, a sense of anticipation as she approached but when she opened it, she was only met by disappointment. All of the nutritional items from her fridge had either vanished into the trash because they’d expired or had been used in the last dish Emma made yesterday. She had nothing but a can of kidney beans—she was somewhat confused why she owned a can of that when she didn’t even like them—and an onion.

She sighed, letting her fingers comb through her hair, which had an awful lot of knots in it. She was in no state to take a trip to the grocery store, dreading the judging looks if she turned up with the messy bun she’d put her hair in to make it look less greasy and in sweatpants. She’d have to go out at this time of night—okay, evening—walk to and back from the shop, encounter many last-minute shoppers and be stuck in the line, and afterwards, she would  _ still _ have to cook and wait for her dinner to be ready.

Considering all of  _ that _ , the decision was easy to make.

Takeout it was.

She took out her file of menus and spread them all over her coffee table—an array of different cultures and countries gathered on the small rectangle in her living room—Emma scrutinizing and considering every one. After some introspective thinking of what her taste buds yearned for, she ruled out Italian and hamburgers and a couple more options and was left with either Chinese or Thai. Pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes, hand alternately looming above both folders, Emma attempted to make a final choice.

But before she could, the doorbell rang.

Emma looked up from the coffee table, a frown etched on her face.

She wasn’t expecting anything, no packages and certainly not any visitors, and unless the Chinese place had a long distance mind reader hired that, just this instant, had received her mental order of chow mein, she doubted that was a possibility either.

Emma used her knees to stand up, pushing her entire weight onto her two joints and getting up in one swift movement. She walked towards the door, suddenly very aware of the fact that she was not wearing a bra and stopped to snatch a sweater off the jacket rack to cover her quite revealing tank top with.

Now, a knock sounded at her door, a rhythmic tapping ruling out the likelihood of it being a door-to-door salesman. They weren’t that adamant or enjoyable as company **.**

“Coming!” Emma yelled, zipping up the blue hoodie until only a sliver of her chest could be seen, until she felt slightly more modest and presentable.

Her hand took the handle and unlocked the door, pulling it open to reveal a smiling Killian leaning against the doorway as if he owned it, a white plastic bag in his hand with a smell coming from it that was absolutely amazing.

“Evening, Swan.”

“Hi?” Emma replied, the greeting hesitant and confused. She ransacked her mind for some agreement or meeting she’d forgotten about, for some lost message that had announced him being on the move to her.

He didn’t pick up on her bewilderment—or chose to ignore it, not granting her any clue or explanation as to why he was currently standing in front of her apartment. He only leaned closer to her, his dark chest hair peeking above the rim of his shirt courtesy of the top two buttons that were left undone.

“Are you by any chance hungry?” He raised his eyebrows with a smirk. “Because I brought Chinese food.” The bag got lifted to showcase all of the goods inside.

Leave it to him to guess she was hungry and desired Chinese food.

“Did you read my mind?” she asked, thinking that maybe he was the one with the sixth sense.

“I’m a very talented man, Swan. Mind-reading, however, doesn’t belong to my CV.”

“Well, very coincidentally I’m actually starving and was just about to order takeout, so perfect timing.” She opened the door further. “Come on in.”

He pushed himself off the border, the smugness oozing from the movement and his expression. How he switched from cocky bastard to shy pumpkin from day to day would remain a mystery to Emma. Not that she was complaining.

At all.

She’d gotten to this state where Killian made everything better. Being with him, spending time with him made her happy enough to forget her own troubles for a moment. It made her focus on the here and now, and not on some looming future or haunting past.

She was also really happy his trace of sorrow had completely vanished, he seemed lighter than ever, the tread was floating. He was bantering.

“Aren’t you going to ask what else I’m really talented in?”

Flirting.

He walked towards her kitchen and set the food on the counter, the combination of the mundanity of his actions and the challenge in his words stunning Emma.

Instead of replying, she just rolled her eyes, sighing along, pretending to be annoyed to hide the swirl of heat inside of her.

“Grab some plates,” she ordered. “I’m going to get changed.”

“Why would you do that, Swan. I, for one, think you look lovely.” And that damned smirk again.

Emma sneered and flipped him the finger before turning around and retreating into her bedroom. She took off her clothes, his presence on the other side of the door a constant reminder, especially after that comment.

She knew there was a mutual attraction between them; there were enough lingering glances and electric touches between them to prove that but neither of them had ever acted on it. She hadn’t because of her double agent status and because it would just not sit right. She couldn’t figure out why Killian hadn’t, however. Perhaps he was waiting for her to make the first move, to take that first step. He would call it good form but Emma wished he’d damn it for once, forget about being a gentleman.

She wanted him to kiss her and she’d kiss back.

The regret would come instantly and would cause it to be a one-time thing but she would’ve known how it felt to press her lips against his, to breathe his air, to move as one.

All she’d have to do to find out was to open that door, eliminate that divide between them. Her skin flushed with heat just thinking of how his eyes would widen and darken, how he would lick his lips and approach, a predatory gleam surrounding him as he stalked closer and closer. He’d start by running a finger over her skin, a touch light as a feather to make her want, crave more. His hot breath following where his touch had been, hovering right above her but never touching, never giving her what she desired. Until he’d end up at her mouth, tracing the curve of her lips with the edge of his nail. Until their lips were only a breath from each other.

They’d stare at each other, see the desire and want grow in those green and blue eyes as they inhaled each other’s air. As they inched closer, excruciatingly slow. When the briefest contact would take place, when that first spark would buzz through the air, all mayhem would break loose. Weeks of desire would overtake in that moment, leading to a moment of chaos, of blur with no idea where he ended and where she began.

Emma gasped for air as she left her little imaginary world. She reprimanded herself for getting carried away with her fantasies. She had to get over it, forget there was even the slightest chance that they would hook up **.** She fished a new bra out of her drawer and put it on, hooking the ends together and pulling the straps over her shoulder. She grabbed a clean t-shirt, one with the Hogwarts logo on. The black, baggy sweatpants on her hips were staying on because they were just too comfy to take off. An extra whiff of deodorant to avoid any unpleasant odors and she was good to go.

Waving her hands to cool off her cheeks to not betray her moment of daydreaming that had just taken place, Emma attempted to regain her cool. She softly hummed some song that had played on the radio when her alarm clock had blared this morning as she made her way back to her living room, fresh and more or less clean. Her stomach let out another grumble and she gently patted it, soothing it, telling it that it would not have to suffer for long anymore.

Killian sat on the couch, back turned to her when she spotted him and as she made her way to sit next to him, the sound of her footsteps alerted him of her presence, causing him to partially turn and look up to her, a chaos of emotions drawn onto his features.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she continued the path she was walking.

Killian brusquely motioned towards the coffee table with his prosthetic, Emma’s gaze following the gesture and seeing, between the dozen folders of restaurants, that same maroon folder she was flipping through earlier. Not closed and hidden under the menus, but strewn about between two neat stacks of pamphlets.

Her eyes widened again. In shock and in apprehension of what would follow.

She should’ve thought about that file and not get all flustered because Killian was here with food. She should’ve thought about hiding it again instead of fantasizing about him and being focused on making herself presentable. There was no way she could explain this to him in a way that made sense. A logical and solid explanation that would not be met with rage and betrayal.

“You know, I still talk quite frequently with my former colleagues back in Boston and when I mentioned your friend’s name and no one seemed to recognize it or you, it didn’t strike me as too odd, it is a big company after all. This file, however, explains why,” he spit out, sloppily jerking it off the table and standing up to meet her stare.

“Killian.” She raised her hands to try and placate, to request peace. “It’s not what you think…”

“It’s not?” He shot her words back, his voice all disbelief. “And how do you explain all of this? How do you explain the fact that I was cleaning up your table and found a file about me on it?”

“I—”

“You what?” His tone began to rise. He lifted a picture and waved it in her face. “This picture was taken when I went to the British Museum **.** We hadn’t even met back then. We met weeks later. I’m guessing that wasn’t a coincidence.”

She was rendered immobile. She was standing there almost paralyzed, almost mute. She didn’t know what to do. All the while, Killian was seething. She hadn’t seen him like this before, his temper had always seemed perfectly suppressed and controlled.

But she’d betrayed him.

And he couldn’t control it anymore.

“No,” Emma said, “It wasn’t a coincidence.”

“So all this time that I thought we had so many things in common, you just read in this blasted file.” He threw the folder on the ground and, for a couple of seconds, it slid on her floor before the force of the throw ejected all of the sheets and pictures, becoming a mosaic on the floor. “All this time that I thought that we were alike, you were just lying. Fucking lying.”

Killian’s hand balled and Emma could see the tension running through his jaw, the sheer force with which he was clenching his teeth together.

“No,” she desperately interjected, despite all of her instincts telling her not to, to let him leave and take the ticking time bomb that was set to explode out of her apartment. She took a haggard breath. “I wasn’t lying. The things I said weren’t lies. Me being your friend wasn’t a lie. I wanted to come clean, okay?”

“Oh well, thank you for at least considering. That makes everything perfectly acceptable.”

One would have to be deaf not to hear the sarcasm embedded into every word, syllable, letter.

“Don’t be like that.”

A grimace appeared on Killian’s lips. He was taking small steps backwards, preparing to leave and never to return. The only thing he’d know if he left was that she betrayed him. The only thing he’d think was that she was the worst person that roamed this earth. And she couldn’t care less that others might think that and see her as a cold bitch but it broke her heart thinking about how Killian might. Enough for her to try and explain.

“I’m working for a Mr. Gold.” Killian stilled and Emma cried victory inside of her. He was willing to listen and hear her out. All hope wasn’t lost yet. “About four months ago, I was approached by one of his employees back in Boston. He had a job for me that paid really well. I took it. The job was to follow you and to gain as much information about you as possible.”

Emma looked at all of her work—research she’d spent months and countless hours on—scattered on the floor. It was a very thorough investigation but she could only feel shame as she regarded it, the notes, the records, the anecdotes.

“That’s why I had this.” She motioned toward the ground. “No, our meeting wasn’t entirely coincidental but it surely wasn’t my goal to do this. I did know all of the things you told me already but that didn’t keep me from wanting to get to know you.”

A scoff sounded through the room.

“That was a very important piece of information to elide, Emma. I work for a bloody cupcake shop. How evil do you think I can be?”

“I know,” she admitted. “but I had no choice. Gold made me sign a contract and the gist of it is that if I breach it, I’m in big trouble.”

“Do you even know what he did? What he’s capable of?”

“What do you mean?” Her forehead crinkled in a frown; she was unsure where Killian was going with this, what he knew about Gold that Emma didn’t.

“You don’t even know. God, I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

“Know what?” Emma replied, slightly snappy, as she got sick and tired of guessing as to what he was referring.

Killian didn’t take her tone too well.

“He’s murderer, Emma!” he yelled back. “A fucking murderer!”

What? Her ears began to ring.

“Remember Liam, the brother I was mourning that time in the pub? The person who we spent hours talking about when we were at Maggie’s? Your dear Mr. Gold is the reason he’s no longer here.”

Emma failed to think of a reply as she was confronted with this new piece of information.

“Huh, so what? The big PI didn’t even perform a background check on her new employer. Were you that desperate that you signed a contract with the actual fucking devil?” He grunted. “Why do I care? It’s not like you did.”

“Killian.”

“I trusted you.”

“I know but—”

“Leave it, Emma. Just fucking leave it.”

One final look of disdain and Killian turned his back on her, heading straight for the door without a second glance. His steps sounded like the steady beat of heartbreak.

Her mouth opened to call him back and ask him to stay but she knew it was going to be to no avail, so Emma pressed her dry lips together again.

The silence overwhelmed her, the sound almost as loud and deafening as the thunderous crash of the door into its frame. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... I know what you're thinking: "it was too good to be true" and you're right, shit had to hit the fan at some point and that point is now :| I’ll see you next week!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm busy studying so not a very elaborate note this time. Just taking the time to mention the amazing work that both my betas @acourtoftruelove and @ofshipsandswans have done to elevate this fic as well as my artist @shady-swan-jones‘ wonderful picsets that helped visualize this fic in such a great way.   
> I owe a lot to them.

The worst thing about it all were those split seconds, the tiny moments where she would forget everything that had happened, where her brain wasn’t caught up with current events yet and she reached to grab her phone wanting to text Killian because it felt like a while since they had talked, wanting to share some video she saw, look for an event in her uneventful day to discuss, ask him whether Sven had gotten up to any antics recently before she realized she couldn’t anymore. Before it would all come crashing down, wounding her that bit more in the process.

After he’d stormed out of her apartment a week ago, there had been a complete radio silence. No calls, texts; not one sign of life. He could be on vacation in Peru for all she knew, not even able to stand being in the same country, let alone the same city as her.

The cursor of her phone blinked in the empty text message she’d opened, trying to catch her attention as it waited for her to type and say something, anything to keep it from endlessly blinking. She could read the last couple of messages they’d sent, happy and friendly and after that, silence. White noise. But the message remained empty, Emma having no idea what she should type.

He hadn’t said anything about her contacting him but she was quite sure it was out of the question after what she’d done. As if he’d share any kind of information, be it trivial or not, with the risk of her passing it onto Gold.

Perhaps, time would heal the wounds.

Maybe he’d miss her and choose to forgive her.

It all sounded very unlikely. Optimistic and far from how she normally thought. At this point, however, it was all she had. Hope.

God, Mary Margaret would be proud of her. Though, would she really be if she knew what Emma had done?

Emma didn’t even have to think about the answer.

She let her head unceremoniously fall, ending up on the hard edge of her couch. Pain shot through her skull causing a flinch but she remained motionless, almost embracing the throbbing or at least too listless to remedy it. She stared at the ceiling, at the cracks that interfered with the off-white color of it, as if she could find an answer, the solution to all of her problems written in the water stains.

Sometimes she wished she believed in some sort of deity. That she could just pray for assistance, for repentance and someone would listen. Zeus was the closest she had to faith and that was highly ironical. Wishing on a star, birthday wishes, the Tooth Fairy, Santa Clause; it was all BS and little Emma had to find that out the hard way. Every time her tooth fell out and no coins magically appeared under her pillow. Every Christmas when the space below the tree—if she was lucky enough to have one—stayed bare. When every wish she’d made for her parents to come and rescue her from a terrible group home was left ungranted. After what she’d gone through, God, the universe, had abandoned her, so she had abandoned her belief.

With all its consequences.

Her phone chimed, Emma’s neck almost snapping at the speed she stretched it again and took her phone, her fingers tapping the code to open it and again, when her hastiness caused it to be wrong.

A new message had been added to the previous thread.

Killian.

Her eyes sped over the letters, having to start over when the words didn’t register in her mind but the moment they finally did, Emma wished they hadn’t.

_ Killian: If I ever see you in my vicinity again, I am calling the cops. And don’t try to call me, I am changing my number. _

She let out the breath she was holding captive in her lungs, releasing it with a tremor.

Fair, it was all fair. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to be anywhere near her. She was working for his enemy; she, the one who had claimed and pretended she was on his side.

The worst part was that she was. Even if he didn’t believe it, even if her actions may not have mirrored that, but she was willing to protect him, to fight injustice.

Maybe if she showed him that, if she openly defied Gold and all that he stood for, he’d be open to a conversation with her.

She hadn’t told Gold about the problem yet; he was still unaware of the turn her relationship with Killian had taken, but if she just quit, without telling him about the compromisation of her position, she could keep Killian out of it.

And that was most important to her.

With a last glance over the cold and harsh words, Emma left the conversation with Killian and swiped into another one with  _ G _ . as the recipient. This time, the cursor did not stand still, moving with determination as she typed in words she did not ponder over nor hesitated about.

_Emma: We need to meet_ _ASAP._

It was the first step in the right direction, to gaining Killian’s forgiveness and righting all wrongs she’d done. After a minute or so, her phone alerted her of an answer to her initial text.

_ G: One does not summon me. _

Emma rolled her eyes to the response. Why did he have to exert his authority like he was some sort of almighty wizard. With a scowl on her face, she replied.

_ Emma: Okay, then I might just turn up at any given moment, broad daylight, with everyone present to notice my presence. Does that work better for you? _

Her unmoving gaze was trained on the screen, waiting for any sort of update but it remained absent. Emma was beginning to sweat, worried that she’d fucked it all up by being too direct, too daring and overestimating her power towards Gold. He had all of the cards in hand, if he chose not to answer, to leave her in the dark, she’d have nothing. No Killian, no leverage, no money, no job, no way to gain his trust again.

She swallowed against the dry insides of her throat.

Come on.

A breath of relief left her lips when a message popped up. It was short, straight to the point, missing the flare of dramatics Gold considered his trademark. He was probably pissed that she did summon him, blackmailed him even, but hey, she let him decide when and where. She left the ball in his court, so technically—technically was a dangerous word to use and rely upon when matters involved shady Gold—he chose the specifics and told  _ her _ to be there.

_G: The alley near Shoreditch Park,_ _10 pm._

A sweep of excitement went through her but was immediately quenched, smothered until there wasn’t even a remnant of the sentiment left. The meeting meant she’d get the opportunity to encounter Gold but it also meant she had to meet  _ Gold _ alone and vulnerable. This required preparation, and since the meeting was taking place in about four hours, this would have to be less subtle than usual. Scouting the location in advance would have no use and would only be a waste of time. She’d have to wing it.

Best case scenario: Gold came alone, unarmed, listened to what she had to say and let her leave in peace.

But Emma was never the optimistic type, her optimism long gone. It got her nowhere in life, so she tore it out, brutal and messy, like the situations it got her into. Realism was what she relied on now, on examining situations, calculating risks, figuring people out. Being realistic was the best thing to be in life. It did not bring any disappointment, nor did it bring miscalculations—a bitter, sour taste to life.

Worst case scenario: Gold would feel the storm brewing and instantly took her out.

She stared at the knife, shimmering in the light of her living room, reflecting it as she turned it, again and again, handling it as she handled the question of whether she’d bring it or not.

It said a lot if she went to a meeting with a knife. He could take it the wrong way and retaliate in ways Emma could not prevent with the little dagger she covered with her palm.

Gold’s MO was mostly threats but Emma wasn’t stupid enough to believe they were empty. He loved to threaten because he knew he had the power—both man and influence—to live up to the words he uttered in menace **.** Plus, she wasn’t born yesterday; Gold was a backstabbing, conniving bastard. He’d do anything to make sure his path of burgeoning was undisturbed.

She stood up in one swift, decided moment, snatched the knife off the table and stashed it in one of the inner pockets of her leather jacket. Close enough for her to grab it in need, covert enough for Gold and his shadows not to be alarmed when they see her.

The clock shifted silently—how many people would have the same generic IKEA clock, she wondered—another tick closer to Gold’s chosen time.

-/-

He met her stare head-on, his dark eyes challenging her. A leer crept on his face as he approached, making Emma step back in caution, hand tightening in her pocket around the knife on the inside of her jacket. Gold wasn’t a tall man nor did he possess a lot of muscle power. Emma could take him down or outrun him without breaking a sweat but there was something in his attitude, in the way he stepped and the way he watched her that scared the shit out of her. A dark force, an unknown power loomed in the shadows behind him and Emma couldn’t figure out if it was just fortunate lighting or whether there was something else going on. Something dangerous. She had no desire to find out so she inched backwards even more, step by step, until her heel and shoulders hit a hard surface.

He got her where he wanted.

She was readying herself to knock him out, a quick but powerful punch against his face to give her the opportunity to run but as he neared, he simply took one look at her midriff and began smiling. His clawy hand reached out, Emma eyeing its movement warily, and plucked the small dagger out of her pocket.

Busted.

“A knife, Ms. Swan?”

He tutted at her like a teacher might reprimand a child, shaking his head and moving an accusing finger along with it.

“I come here on your terms and you bring a knife.” He dangled it in front of her, baiting her, challenging her to defy him and snatch it out of his hold. She knew better than to, however. She wouldn’t fall for his tricks. “What does that make me think?”

“It was for protection.”

“Protection from what?” He played coy. “Oh, Emma. You do know that I’d never hurt one of my esteemed employees. I’m clean.” He threw the knife away, out of her reach and, which was a relief, out of his as well. It clattered on the concrete of the street. His hands rose into the air. “Do you want to check,” he added with a tone that made Emma’s skin crawl and made her pity any woman that ever had to endure his advances.

“I’m good,” she replied, not even attempting to hide her disgust.

A chuckle came out of his mouth before he took a step back, finally giving her some room again, space to breathe and evaluate.

“There is a reason I hired you, your task is not yet completed, thus you will continue and stop this nonsense.”

“I quit,” she spat.

Which was immediately countered with: “You cannot.”

“I don’t even know why I’m spying on him while he’s clearly the blameless party in this situation and you’re the one that’s dabbling in shady stuff.” She waved her hands into the air. “Don’t think I didn’t look you up, Gold. Didn’t find all of the accusations, the accounts of how you somehow get away with everything.”

She should’ve done it earlier. Why she hadn’t, she didn’t understand. The only thing she did know was that Killian was right. What accomplished PI didn’t perform a background check on the employer that flew her in from another continent just to follow around some guy? There were red flags, big flashy neon signs, why did she ignore those?

It was too late to change that, though. She would have to live with the consequences, carry the burden of a heavy conscience on her back. Accept the fact that she caused harm.

“Now I’d be careful, Ms. Swan.” His face became even more cold, even more terrifying. Gone were the signs of amusement that played in his expression. Gold was deadly serious. “You’re treading on dangerous territory here. I wouldn’t want you to harm yourself by saying something unwise.”

Emma didn’t care, however.

“Try me,” she provoked with a firm voice. She stood tall with straight shoulders.

“You will continue to work for me or so help me God.”

“What god is that again? Beelzebub?”

That comment might’ve been slightly unnecessary, but she thought it was funny.

Only, Gold didn’t.

“There will be consequences to this breach, Ms. Swan,” his voice rose an octave. “You just had to go and break our deal,” he sneered, his movements frantic and disorienting.

“Take care of your own dirty work, Gold, instead of letting others do it.”

Emma walked away, a triumphant smile tugging on her lips. She did it. She managed to trump Gold.

This called for a celebratory drink.

“Emma!” Samir said once she walked into his shop. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your lovely company?”

“Hey, Samir,” she greeted him in return. “I’m here to buy a bottle of tequila.” She began looking around, searching for what she desired. First glancing over the bottle, she did a double take and a half-smile appeared on her face. She moved to grab the bottle, determination in her gait and returned, setting it on Samir’s counter.

“Someone has big plans tonight.” He raised an eyebrow while he picked up the bottle and ran it through the register.

“Not exactly,” she amended. “—but I do have cause to celebrate. Grab some glasses, we’re toasting.”

Samir blinked in confusion at her announcement, narrowed his eyes but still left the shop to go into the back and, as told, reemerged with two mismatched glasses.

“What are we celebrating?” he asked, the glasses accidentally clinking as he set them on the counter.

In one quick motion, Emma twisted the cap off of the bottle, the spicy aroma spreading into the air and finding her nostrils. The amber liquid was generously poured into the glasses and she pushed one to Samir, grabbing the other for herself.

“Justice,” she replied, raising her drink in proposal of a toast. “And the good guys finally winning.”

He smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek as he lightly tapped his glass against hers.

“I’ll drink to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like leaving a comment about this chapter or the fic in general, feel free to. I could use some fun and/or interesting distractions from my exams. See you next week for what might be the most emotionally confusing chapter of this fic and I mean that in a good way.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter ticks just about every warning mentioned in the tags (who am I kidding, it's all of them). You're about to embark on a real rollercoaster and I'm sure there will be screaming and perhaps some fear too so this is simply a fair warning to brace yourselves. Am I doing a good job of selling this chapter? Yes? No? I'm sure you're curious now so just start reading. I do really like this chapter, I'll even go a step further in saying that it is actually one of my favorite ones so... Enjoy? It won't be as bad as I depict it here, don't worry.
> 
> Shout out to my betas @acourtoftruelove and @ofshipsandswans for always supporting me and my writing. For reasons I will later reveal, I was most anxious about this chapter. They managed to convince that what I wrote was good and realistic and prevented me from scratch the whole thing, so thank you bbis.
> 
> And I can of course not forget the artistic @shady-swan-jones who used her talent to create fitting and great art! You can view, like, reblog, admire it all on my tumblr or hers!

Emma had done most of what she needed to do, most of what was written down on her mental checklist of redemption, but one thing remained. The most important thing was left unchecked: talking to Killian.

Talking to him and telling him what she’d done and ask him for forgiveness. Without, all of the other things were useless, not worth it.

It was time to mend things.

-/-

If only she knew how exactly.

Killian had told her in pretty clear and unambiguous words that he would call the cops if he saw her again and this mission was worth a lot but it wasn’t worth being taken into custody or receiving a restraining order, which would definitely complicate matters.

This called for tactics and a clear plan, but her mind was painfully empty, no idea in sight. She used to pride herself on having a knack for strategizing, for analyzing a situation and figuring out all the risks that came with it and adjusting the plan accordingly. Where she normally had several, she couldn’t even come up with a plan A.

And while she wanted to be frustrated with herself, Emma could see or sense the cause of it all.

She was afraid. Scared, terrified, fearful, whatever Thesaurus alternative you wanted to use. Before, she risked getting physically hurt, something superficial, a bruised leg, maybe a sprained ankle but she could handle that. Use an icepack against the swelling and some cream against the bruising and after a few days the worst would have passed.

But what was there to fix a broken heart? How long would that take?

She knew how long it had taken with Neal; she wasn’t even sure her heart had entirely healed yet, nor that it ever would. The heartbreak she’d suffered then had been unexpected. Her life had gone from good—great even—to abysmal. And all of it was Neal’s fault, she was not to blame, she hadn’t done anything wrong—except for the petty thefts but that was another story altogether. _He_ had left _her_ . _He_ had betrayed _her_. So her sorrow was fueled with anger and her heart was temporarily patched with ire.

This, however, was different than then. This was all _her_ doing. Her betrayal. Her secrets. The thought she could’ve prevented her fragile heart from being on the line again made her want to fight as hard as she could to keep it from ever being hurt again, from shattering his in the process.

So a slow and steady approach it was.

-/-

Slowly and steadily stalking him, that is.

Well, not stalking. Surveilling was a better term. Although she wasn’t exactly employed or asked to do so, so maybe that did categorize as a stalker. Shit, it didn’t exactly make her seem sane and collected.

She was not so coincidentally walking behind him?

So, either way, that was what she was doing and had been doing for the past six days. Walking and gathering the courage to go up to him, and walking and losing said courage. Walking and considering leaving London altogether, and walking and convincing herself to stay.

A lot of walking basically.

Killian had mostly resumed the routine he had before he met her. Go to work at a certain hour, return at the end of the day. One big change, however, was that he was spending all of his evenings at The Merry Men. He wasn’t that much of a heavy drinker and going from how he’d told her about his complicated relationship with alcohol, she knew this wasn’t a positive evolution. What could she do about it, though?

Tell him to stop? Ask him what had brought on this change in routine? Both impossible when he didn’t want to speak to or see her anymore.

The only thing she could do was be a silent surveyor, a vigilante of some sorts but instead of protecting a whole city, she was only covetously focused on him.

Well, until a man caught her attention, that is. He was dressed in head-to-toe black and walked a couple of feet behind Killian as he was walking home from Fika. Even though his eyes were shielded by dark sunglasses, Emma could still see that they were solely fixated on Killian. Intensely fixated. The man’s lips were a thin line, his brow creased in concentration, something bordering on anger. It—he—definitely meant no good news, Emma could deduct that much. Killian entered his apartment building and the stranger vanished as fast as he’d appeared.

Was she even sure of it? Was the dude not just experiencing a bad migraine, or maybe he was trying to think where he knew Killian from.

Yes.

She was sure. She’d been in contact with bad people long enough to pick up their behavior, to see the signs.

She hoped he would stay away, but when Killian left for The Merry Men that night and the man clad in black became his shadow again, she knew this was serious.

He was here for Killian.

Not just here for him, but here to hurt him. This had Gold’s fingerprints all over it. She thought quitting would’ve helped, would’ve stopped Gold from attempting to harm Killian, but who was she kidding? The man was hellbent on destroying lives and had, for some reason, singled out Killian. Well, she knew the reason, more or less. She’d just thought that her threats were more powerful than this.

Killian went inside the pub and Emma wanted to follow him, but she couldn’t. He had threatened to call the cops before and if she was arrested, she would have absolutely no way to protect him.

The man with the sunglasses followed him and entered as well. He wouldn’t do anything inside, too many witnesses, a possibility of security cameras recording whatever offense he was planning to do. No, he only followed inside not to lose his lead.

The temperatures dropped and while it wasn’t anything like the Boston variety of cold, Emma definitely was not appropriately dressed. She shivered and wrapped her hands around her body as she stood in the shadows, watching the patch of light around the entrance and exit of the bar like a hawk.

Why was he still here? He should go home; if there was any time to follow his strict schedule, it was now. Now, so that he didn't spend more time outside than necessary, that he’d be out of harm’s way as soon as possible. Emma’s felt her chest tighten, the worry coiling inside.

The door opened and a couple walked out, so set on displaying a really extreme amount of PDA that she averted her eyes for a moment.

_Go home, go home, go home. Come on, Killian_

The door opened and a group of drunken men walked out, Emma shielding herself into the shadows a little more. She’d rather not be assaulted today—or any day for that matter.

Her feet impatiently tapped on the ground.

_Killian, go home._

He didn’t listen. Of course.

The door stayed shut.

It was nearing ten o’clock and while normally, for a night out that would be considered an early night, she hoped that Killian would realize that he 1. was all alone, 2. had to walk all the way back, and 3. was expected to be at Fika at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.

It took an additional ten minutes before the door opened to reveal Killian, hair messy and cheeks tinged in the cold light of the moon. The waggle in his stead told Emma he had drunk a fair amount of alcohol, too much to be safe in general, definitely too much with a shady dude in his wake.

And like he was summoned, the stranger followed Killian outside, Emma very much aware of his presence and Killian very much oblivious to it.

It only took seconds before the situation went from bad and risky to absolutely terrible.

The man launched into a sprint chasing a wobbling Killian and knocked him to the ground, defenseless and powerless. He was not even able to put his hands out in front of him to break his fall, going head first. She could hear him hit the ground from where she was standing, hear the dull thud reverberating off the stony ground.

It wasn’t enough for the man. It wasn’t enough that he’d managed to knock him over and possibly knock out, the nasty look on his round face told her that this was not a half-finished business situation. He’d continue until either Killian had gotten the message or she had. Emma didn’t want to know what that equated in Gold’s mind.

Gold’s minion lifted his foot and prepared to kick the fallen Killian with an immense force. Emma ran for dear life, attempting to reach them before the man was able to hurt him anymore.

Everything slowed down.

The man snarled as his leg swung, closer and closer to where Killian lay. He was still not moving, his body lying limp on the cobblestones. She moved her gaze upwards, back to the man. Right now she had to prevent any additional harm, she couldn’t help him if the stranger could continue hurting him. The arch of the foot had not been completed yet, the dark boot had not reached its target yet.

The attacker was bigger and heavier than she was, meaning it would take a lot of effort to manage to knock him down. At least she had the element of surprise and he’d be easier to bring out of balance with his foot in the air. Her feet pushed off of the ground and the moving force of her body hit his. The impact affected the both of them. He stumbled, ending up on the ground a few feet away from Killian and she scrambled to not suffer the same fate, hands outstretched to regain her balance. His expression screamed anger and bewilderment. He hadn’t counted on Emma interfering, using his own tactic on him.

He struggled to rise again, trying to push himself off the ground again to no doubt continue attacking them, but she would not let him.

“Leave!” she screamed. She was intrepid, for a moment she didn't care about the man being larger and heavier than she was. The only thing that mattered was getting out of there unharmed. Or not more harmed she thought, the unconscious Killian playing in the back of her mind. “I will scream until everyone in this entire neighborhood is awake.” Grabbing her phone she unlocked it to quickly snap a picture of the man before her. “I’ll call the cops and show them this picture, I’m sure it won’t take them long to find you.” The attacker’s concern was tangible, her words disconcerting. She bet Gold would do terrible things to him if he managed to get himself caught and risk his actions leading back to his boss. “Don’t you dare bother us again.” It came out in a growl, making it even more of a warning.

The man scurried away, as much of a rat as his employer was.

She watched him, eyes trained on his moving back as he disappeared from the scene. In an instant Emma turned around, kneeling next to Killian’s unconscious body. “Killian.” She shook his shoulders. “Killian!” Her hand searched for his wrist and tried to focus on a steady pulsing under his skin. When she detected one, she sighed in relief. At least he wasn’t dead.

One slight problem, however. What was she going to do with an unconscious Killian? Bring him inside to Robin to let him wake up before vanishing herself? He wouldn’t get home that way and what if Gold’s minion did not heed her warning and just came back?

It was her job to get him home.

She searched for her phone in the pocket of her hoodie before she remembered she’d put it in her back pocket. Clicking the device to life and inserting her password, Emma looked for the number of a taxi service. She found one fairly quickly and dialed the number, waiting until the dialing tone made place for a human voice. Finally, a man’s voice crackled along the line, welcoming her to the service and asking how he could be of service. She answered the question by replying she was in need of a cab and stated the address she was currently seated and Killian was currently lain. The man assured her it was no problem and one of their drivers would reach her in ten minutes, wishing her a pleasant evening before the line was broken off.

Hopefully, Killian would wake up before the cab arrived because she was in no mood to explain that situation to the unsuspecting cab driver that came to pick them up. She began shaking him again, the method proving to be successful this time as he flinched in response, his face distorted as he groaned.

She inspected his head but, despite the hard fall, there was not a speck of blood nor any sign of swelling or discoloration. He got lucky.

His return to consciousness was slow and time-consuming and by the time the street lit up due to the cab’s headlights, he was more or less sitting upright but his eyes stayed closed, Emma guessed it was to ward off the headache that followed the hit.

The cabbie stopped the car and got out, his face worriedly scanning the both of them stuck on the sidewalk.

“D‘ you order a cab?” he asked, his grey-streaked eyebrows creasing.

“Yes,” Emma answered, a saccharine smile appearing on her face. “My boyfriend got a little too drunk and we have to get home.” The apology was palpable in her voice.

“D’ you need some help?” He nodded at Killian’s slumped form.

“If you’d be so kind.” She stood up, wiping some dirt off her pants, before turning to Killian and grabbing his left arm, the cab driver hurrying to join her and grabbing his right.

“No worries, lass,” he assured her as they slowly carried him to the car. The door opened and with a gentle touch, they placed him inside. Once the door shut again, Emma hurried to the other side of the vehicle to get in as well.

She told their driver the address and he nodded, putting the key into the slot and igniting the engine. The car roared to life. Her eyes kept drifting to Killian, the worry etched on her face, in the set of her mouth and the lines on her forehead. It only took about five minutes to reach Killian’s place, the driver stepping out again to help support Killian to the entrance of his building.

She thanked him, handing him his fare with an added bonus of a generous tip and the man bowed his head in gratitude as he accepted his payment.

“He’s lucky to have you.”

She smiled, the movement of her lips not completely genuine and watched the driver leave again.

Emma was certain Killian would disagree.

They went inside. Emma looked up at the stairs and sighed. This again. She’d hoped that the last time she had to support—carry—him upstairs would be in fact the only time but it seemed that she would not be that fortunate.

Who needed a gym membership when she could help 178 lbs up two flights of stairs on a regular basis?

There was a jingle of keys as she accidentally brushed against his jacket and Emma smiled. At least some aspect of this could be easy. She fished out the keys, slid one into the lock and let out a content sigh when she’d picked the right one, right off the bat.

Flicking on the lights, she led Killian into his own apartment. She didn’t know if she could make it to the bed like this, but the couch was close and comfortable enough for him to recover. He appeared to agree as he sighed once his body hit the soft leather and burrowed himself into the sofa. She stood and watched him fall asleep.

She could leave now.

He was safe in his apartment.

But was it really morally responsible to go away now? She couldn’t just leave without really making sure he was okay. And so she sat down in a comfortable-looking chair that stood next to the sofa. Her curiosity pulled at her to go and explore his place, find objects and things she hadn’t caught last time but she willed her body to stay put. She had no right to, she hadn’t been invited, she wasn’t even on good terms with Killian right now. He wouldn’t appreciate it if he saw her snooping around, would think it was only a part of her former job again. She stayed seated.

Until there was movement on the couch again.

“Killian, easy,” she said as she saw him trying to get up, a disoriented look across his expression. “You got knocked out and I brought you to your apartment,” Emma continued speaking, trying to explain.

He looked at her, his eyes first clear and untarnished, before a darkness swept over, before he remembered everything.

“Thank you, my one and only savior,” he snided.

“Killian, come on, don’t.” She tried to approach but he wouldn’t let her, contorting his body so he could avoid her touch.

He nearly fell down in the process, the alcohol still in his system and not having recovered from the knockout hit yet.

“I don’t care that you don’t want to be here with me right now, but you’re staying put, Killian Jones or so help me God. You’re drunk, you got KO’d. The last thing you should do is strain yourself. Unless you want to end up unconscious on the floor. If that’s the case, be my guest.” She waved to embellish her statement. What a risk she was taking, what a gamble that Killian wouldn’t just be headstrong and stubborn and do exactly that. She knew him, however, or she liked to think she knew him and while he had his stubborn moments—nothing compared to hers of course—Killian was also smart, often calculated, so while he could use this situation to prove a point, he wouldn’t risk his own life like that; he was a survivor after all. He’d told her that so many times.

While not particularly content with the situation, by the way his lips stayed closed and his body stilled, Emma figured that he did see she had a point.

She walked over to the kitchen, filled a glass with water and handed it to him before settling back into her chair.

A couple of newspapers lay on a tiny coffee table next to it and to battle the awkwardness and to prevent herself from staring at Killian the entire time, she opened one, her gaze racing over the headlines to determine what she’d find interesting to read about.

She’d almost gotten to the end of the last one, all in silence with only the occasional rustling of paper against her fingers. A grunt reached her ears and Emma left the newspaper as it was, eyes traveling to the source.

“Are you feeling alright? Do you need a painkiller?”

“I’m fine.” Emma couldn’t keep the incredulous look from taking over her expression. “Truly,” he reassured, standing up from the couch in one swift motion.

She stood up as well.

“Do you need proof?” he questioned.

“No, of course not,” she opposed, sounding beaten because of his bitterness. “I guess I’ll get going then.”

Killian said nothing in return, no acknowledgment of her statement or approval of her departure.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw him peer out the window, shoulders tense and hands shoved into the pockets of his dark jeans. She walked away from the door.

“What happened between you and Gold that made him hate you so much?”

If she was deciding to leave him alone for good and stop meddling in this trainwreck of a situation, she had to know everything. There was a missing chunk in this narrative; things didn’t add up. Why would Gold go for such drastic measures as to kill a man, to take his life as some kind of retribution, a fair revenge?

It stayed quiet and that didn’t come as a surprise. Why would he even bother to reply? He’d made it perfectly clear that this, whatever it might be and might have been, was over.

She should go home.

Staying here only bothered him and hurt her.

Silently, she bid him goodbye one last time, resuming the path she’d previously abandoned. She’d miss him but at least he was safe, at least she’d been there to protect him tonight. She could add one positive thing to her résumé.

Her hand went to the door handle but stopped mid-air as the silence was finally broken. She whirled around.

“I had an affair with Milah, Gold’s wife,” he answered, still facing the dark view of the city.

Emma wasn’t expecting that answer at all and for a second, she was happy he wasn’t looking at her. Her expression was all over the place as she processed the fact that he did want to talk to her while attempting to wrap her mind around the image of Killian sleeping with Gold’s wife. She’d never heard anyone mention a Mrs. Gold and as far as she knew, Gold didn’t wear a wedding ring, though the mention of an affair might explain that.

If it hadn’t been Killian himself telling her, she would deem it an impossible rumor, ungrounded and untrue. For all his talk of honor and good form, sleeping with a married woman strayed far from that. So either he was not who he pretended to be or there was even more to this story. She could sense it was the latter, her gut had never once detected something was off, her mind had never once caught a lie.

“I didn’t care that she was married, not when we were so absolutely in love and when she made me feel like I’d never felt before. She was going to leave her husband, but before she could, he caught wind of the affair and it is safe to say he wasn’t very pleased with it. He wanted me out of the picture and set up a trap to kill me. What he didn’t count on, however, was Liam being the one driving instead of me.” Emma covered her mouth with her hand. He didn’t have to tell her what the outcome of that plan was: Liam lifeless and Killian hand-less and without a brother. “Even though the other driver was identified and put into jail, I knew he was the real culprit. I asked Milah to gather proof, to tell him she’d left me and that I was nothing more than a distraction, so he’d begin to trust her again. This went on for months but Milah came back one day, convinced that he had figured it out. We had to stop. She did have one last piece of information: Gold was leaving Boston to move to London.”

“Where is Milah now?”

At last, Killian abandoned the window and turned around, running his hand through his dark locks. He looked exhausted.

“Gone.” It felt like Emma’s heart stopped beating. “Disappeared into thin air. We’d always talked about traveling the world and I take it she’s doing just that,” he said, not one trace of resentment in his voice, instead something akin to gratitude. She let out a small sigh, thankful herself that no more people had met their end in this feud.

His explanation played again in her head, slowly filling in the gaps like concrete being poured over a battered road. Her forehead creased and she went in search of his eyes.

“ _That’s_ why you moved back to London? To keep researching Gold and to build up a case? You lied to me?”

Her accusations stirred something loose in him, a spark igniting in the dull blue of his irises.

“I wasn’t bloody well going to tell a girl I just met and fancied that I moved here because of a feud with my brother’s murderer. I might’ve hidden the real reason why I returned to England, but the rest of it was all real. And, to be quite honest, Swan, you don’t get to be all bloody judgemental.” He pointed a finger at her. “You’ve done too much to earn that right. Including conniving with my arch nemesis.”

Emma felt her own temper rise, slowly but surely taking hold of her body and thoughts, revealing everything she’d been wanting to say but hadn’t had the chance to or had the courage for.

“You wanna talk about it?” She walked towards him, eyes wide. “Let’s. What the fuck do you want me to say? That I was selfish, only thinking of myself? That I didn’t know? Because, yes, that’s true, it’s what happened. I regret it, though, trust me. I’ve been alone my entire life, fighting to survive, to get somewhere in life.”

And she’d made some bad decisions along the way, but who in her situation didn’t? Staying alone, an orphan, homeless wasn’t an option.

“You haven’t been the only person in this whole fucking world to get hurt, Emma. You know about me, about my youth, about my brother. I told you all of that and still, you continued to lie. You want to blame that on a crappy childhood, sure go ahead. But that doesn’t excuse all of your actions.”

It should’ve been the yelling or the clench in his jaw or his balled fists but in the end, the only thing that truly scared her were his words. How they seemed to exclamate the truth and nothing but it. And as the reality of the situation hit her—as the truth was brought to the surface—so had the tears.

She was crying like she was the one who had gotten betrayed, as if she were the one who had been lied to for weeks on end.

Holy fuck, what the hell was wrong with her?

He was inching towards the door again, clearly planning to force her to leave and never let her back in. She could sense it. He was done.

“Please don’t make me leave,” she begged, hating how she sounded, how weak.

A sob escaped her lips, her hand immediately smothering the sound. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried; an actual crying fit. She was never overtly emotional. She had a tight leash on her emotions and was able to master them, to contain them. But it seemed this whole situation—the yelling, the betrayal, the want—had eviscerated that. It had dissolved the strings she used to control and left a chaos of loose, jumping, and roaming feelings.

Killian stopped.

“I’m just tired, Swan,” he admitted, his shoulders moving in a shrug, his hand covering his face. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Emma didn’t either. Not with the defeat in his voice. Not with the empty apologies in hers.

In silence, she watched him, the warm tears rolling down her cheeks with no obstruction, no sound.

“You know what the worst part is?” He looked up again while speaking, his eyes registering her tears. “Even though you’ve only lied to me these past weeks, the worst part of it all was when you decided to throw yourself into harm's way today to save me.”

He struggled with his words, with what she’d done, she could see it. His breathing was too vehement for him to be calm and collected. He shielded his eyes by placing his hand on his forehead, worriedly rubbing his temples.

“And to top it off: you only did it to atone for what you did, to save your own skin.”

Her hand wiped some of the tears off her cheek.

“I did it for you.” Emma had to stifle the displeasure. She understood why he would think that, how her behavior had led him to believe she was as selfish as they came, ready to throw others under the bus for her own gain.

Maybe she was once. Slightly too selfish for her own good, always focused on her own survival, first and foremost. She had learned to share and open up with her friends back in Boston but her solitude here had triggered the instinct that was buried deep inside again. And that had led to this mess. This absolute clusterfuck of a mess.

“I did it for you,” she repeated, softer, more vulnerable. Emma couldn’t think of anything else than that one sentence, those five words.

For him. And selfishly for herself as well, but not to protect herself. To protect someone she cared so, so much for. Enough to cast her self-preservation aside and risk everything.

He looked up at her words, a question swirling around the blue of his irises.

“I know it doesn’t atone for what I’ve done and that wasn’t why I did it. I only did it to save you.”

His forehead crinkled in confusion.

“I cannot for the life of me figure you out, Emma. What do you want?”

At that moment, she chose honesty, even if it was painful or confusing or unsatisfactory. Like the answer she gave to his question.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” he questioned angrily. “Was it all an act then? Scripted and rehearsed and you don’t know what to do now? Have you run out of stage directions and lines?”

“I didn’t pretend, okay!” she yelled, fed up with him second-guessing her actual, true feelings. “The touches, the smiles, that wasn’t part of an act. That was me. And it hurt doing what I did. I considered quitting so many times but I’d signed a contract and I was still able to make a clean break. And then—” She cut herself off with a profound sigh, closing her eyes as the sound came out of her mouth.

“And then what?”

“I fe—I started caring about you and Gold started threatening me, forcing me to continue. At the Tottenham match, when I got a work call—”  She saw Killian think back of the moment, try to recall it. “—it was him. That’s why I acted so strange afterward, why I didn’t answer your texts anymore. I didn’t want to hurt you.” Her hand wiped a tear away. She’d tried, she really had. “The problem was that I was hurting you either way, by staying because that led to this and by staying away because I would’ve broken your heart. I hate him for that,” she spat and took a breath. She sniffed before continuing with a more quiet voice. “Hate myself for it.”

Killian watched her, not a word of reaction, not a word of dismay coming out of his mouth. She so wished it would, that the silence wasn’t just filled with the sound of her crying. It said enough, though. She had done it again.

She had no excuses left.

No friends.

No family.

No one.

Back to where she started, but the clean slate did not feel liberating or rejuvenating. It just felt empty. Lonely. She hadn’t felt that in quite a while. Even before, there was the tiniest kernel of hope that their rift was only temporary and that they’d, at some point, resume their journey. She had no idea where it was going but she had been curious to find out. No more of that now, however. Roadblock, access denied. It was time to let Killian go and let him explore new places, new options. Things that could actually make him happy. She knew that Gold lurking would deter him from actual happiness. Being on the run was no way to live, she could attest to that.

The least she could do was make sure Gold didn’t ruin any more lives.

“I promise I will make sure Gold leaves you alone.”

“No.”

“Killian,” she attempted to reason. How did he not see that it would be for the best?

“No.” The word was harsh and curt, his eyes strict and commanding as he approached her, far from the playfulness that once resided in them. “I cannot lose anyone else at the hands of that vile bastard. I cannot lose you, Emma. Even though you’re not mine to lose.”

He stood so close to her, she had to lift her head to look him in the eyes. What she saw there only made her heart beat faster, her breathing more hurried, the feeling inhabiting her body stronger.

“I _am_ yours.”

His breath was hot on her skin; his eyes darted across her face, pausing by her lips before moving back upwards along her tear-stained cheeks. They stared into each other’s eyes and the electricity crackled along Emma’s arms.

She wasn’t exactly sure who took that final step and bridged that final gap, but one moment they were staring at one another and the next their lips were touching.

And it was the culmination of four months of yearning, of all of the anger and fear, of every “will they, won’t they” moment and thought, of every smile and every lingering touch.

So much emotion that it consumed her, it consumed him.

It was a heated battle for control, the give and take. It was rushed, the both of them hurrying to explore everything there was to explore as if it could be taken away any second. Their teeth clashing, their tongues dancing. And all she wanted was more. More of this, more of him.

Her hands tangled into the hair at his nape, inching higher in the smooth, longer locks. His arm was snug around her waist and his hand disappeared in her hair. Her breathing accelerated; the oxygen she was getting wasn’t enough when her body was burning through it, burning for him.

She bit his lip and he groaned, a guttural sound that in one sweep sent all of the heat downwards. He lifted her legs in response, pulling her even closer while his hand slipped under her clothes. Emma locked her ankles around his waist, never breaking the connection of their lips. He carried her to where she assumed the bedroom was, no trace of his earlier injury in his steady and powerful step. He used his foot to open the door. His hand and prosthetic were engaged in fondling the curve of her hips and massaging her supple skin in a way that she wanted his fingers everywhere along her body, wanted every region to go through the same feeling of delight.

She was wearing too many clothes.

In a careful act of balancing, anchoring her weight on one arm while the other slid out of the sleeve of her dark hoody, she attempted to remedy that. Successfully, as the garment unceremoniously hit the ground after some more wriggling. Her attention went back to the fusion of their lips, the push and pull. Killian closed the door and pressed Emma against it, giving the both of them more leverage and balance. She gathered the fabric of his shirt in her hands, forcing him to come impossibly closer. The wooden door was not treating her back well, so she slightly shifted her hips to find a more comfortable angle. It elicited an unexpected moan from Killian, the sound reverberating against her teeth. And so she did it again, the same effect following swiftly. A smirk appeared on her lips and he whispered something she couldn’t decipher before moving them to the bed.

He slowly laid her down on the bed, his hair brushing against Emma’s forehead as they continued to kiss, discover what other spots made them quiver and whimper all the while still being fully clothed.

There was no mistake to be made in where this would lead once they actively began to take off their clothes, in how everything would change once they did and they both seemed to come to that realization at the same time.

The kiss broke at last and as soon as his lips left hers, she only wanted to chase that lost sensation again, restore the warm connection that had tingled along the sensitive surface of her lips. Killian went to sit on his knees and Emma sat upwards to be on equal footing. For the first time since, their eyes met. Pupils blown wide, there was barely any blue to be discerned in his eyes but there was something else. Vulnerability. And the emotion he exuded, she probably mirrored.

It only confirmed how much she wanted this, had wanted this for ages. Not to just fuck someone, but for it to mean something more, so much more. She wanted him and only him.

She saw the question appear in his eyes and she nodded before slowly kissing him again, cradling his cheeks, the light stubble coarse against her palms. It was the opposite of their earlier kisses; it was slow, tender and unhurried. The only thing that was left after they worked off seething fire. It was still there but subdued, embers that were at the end of their life, softly dying but still smoldering, still carrying that essence of warmth.

She reached for the oversized T-shirt she was wearing and lifted it over her head, exposing her simple black bra. Killian pressed his lips down on her collarbone, tracing it with his tongue as Emma buried her hand back into his hair. A gasp escaped her lips. As the soft cotton of his shirt rubbed against her bare skin, she opened her eyes. He still had his shirt on. Not for long, if it depended on her. She grabbed the hem and lifted it, Killian helping by raising his arms and allowing her to take the shirt off. Haphazardly, she threw it somewhere in the room, her focus completely usurped by the glorious chest in front of her.

After some fiddling behind her back, Killian managed to unhook her bra fairly easily which for some reason turned her on even more. The bands slid off before Emma, again, launched the garment away from the bed, not even remotely caring where it landed. He pampered her with kisses all over her chest, some more rough than others with his tongue coming in and soothing her throbbing skin.

Thinking that he deserved some attention and pleasure too, her fingers roughly raked through his chest hair before she claimed his lips again. Her hands continued to roam, scratching along the trail of hair that ventured south. She came across the button of his pants and undid it, together with opening the zipper to relieve some tension, much appreciated going off of Killian’s sigh. As he rushed to take his pants off, Emma went to her own pair and removed it.

He looked like a man with a purpose as he watched her, half-naked in his bed, and approached her. It didn’t take long for Emma to discover what the purpose was as his teeth got rid of the final piece of clothing on her body. “Oh,” she mouthed. The pleasure took hold of her and she licked her lips as breathing became harder and harder, as the waves of pleasure soared higher and then crashed.

He let her catch her breath as he simply lay next to her, watching her, occasionally brushing a stray hair away from her forehead, caressing the apple of her cheek, grazing her swollen lips. She looked at him, noting the tenderness and he softly smiled before planting a butterfly kiss on her forehead, then both of her cheeks, on the freckles of her nose before ending on her mouth. Emma kissed back, more fervently than Killian had planned the kiss to be and set everything—the burning and lust—back into motion.

It was back to wanting everything and all.

It was back to needing him.

-/-

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling. There wasn’t anything to see, the darkness had swallowed every feature and detail of the room. And yet, it was the nothingness that kept her from sleeping, that let her imbue every haunting thought and magnify it, project it on a dark canvas.

She couldn’t think.

Killian’s hand across her stomach felt too warm, too crushing.

She couldn’t breathe.

Emma slid out of his hold, slowly and carefully to not interrupt his peaceful slumber, and left the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know I've done it again. Sorry. Here's a fun fact to distract you: this is actually the first time I've written anything remotely M territory. I'm usually a kiss and fade to black kinda gal but for some reason, the CSBB challenge wasn't enough for me and I had to throw in a personalized one as well. Again, I'm grateful for my wonderful betas and their support which led me to conquer two challenges instead of one.
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts and if you haven't left a kudos yet, I'd love it if A Muted Hue of Grey could reach the one hundred mark. Until next week, friends!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that another week has passed and we're back!   
> Thanks to my betas @acourtoftruelove and @ofshipsandswans and my lovely artist Sophie @shady-swan-jones for making art for this fic

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to Killian’s sleeping form. “I have to do this even though you’re probably going to hate me afterward. There’s no other way.”

She crouched in front of the bed, leveling her eyes with his closed ones. She yearned to touch his face but didn’t dare to; he could not wake up. It would ruin everything. Her head dropped, her forehead burrowing into the grey sheets adorned with small blue anchors. He’d apologized for them as they lay catching their breath, slowly getting down from the high they experienced. The sheets had been another incentive. He was innocent. Gold was the bad guy in this situation.

Which is why he needed to be eliminated.

So that they at least had a chance of a peaceful life. They stood a chance in life. The world would be a better place without him; Killian would still have a brother if he’d never encountered Gold. He would’ve had a different life, one without so much heartbreak and sorrow. She couldn’t fix that but at least she could make sure Gold’s reign of terror ended.

Her eyes fell on Killian’s sleeping form one last time, attempting to print the image of him into her mind, looking at every detail, every aspect of him in the darkened room. She was doing this for the greater good. Maybe she was ruining everything that they had, but how else would it stop? How else could she live with herself knowing all that she’d done wrong. It didn’t matter if she was putting herself in a dangerous situation, all that mattered was keeping him from harm. She was finally fighting instead of running away, finally facing the issue instead of sweeping it under the rug and ignoring its presence there.

She felt a demanding presence of tears in her eyes and willed them to go away, to not make this even harder than it already was. To not make this as much as a goodbye as it was. She should get going, they were getting closer and closer to sunrise and she was losing precious time. Not to mention that Killian had said he was an early riser, the last thing she needed was him waking up to her fully-dressed, sitting next to his bed with tears in her eyes. That would only lead to questions she did not want to answer. This was her only shot, her only chance to make a clean cut. So she had to go.

She got off of her knees, her bare feet slowly tiptoeing backward while she kept looking at him, his chest still steadily rising and falling, his expression without a care in the world. He’d thought they were able to solve it. They hadn’t talked a lot but she knew that Killian was planning to do so in the morning, attempting to clear the air to see if they could move forward, move past this. Emma knew they couldn’t. She had to be realistic and if there was one thing Emma Swan was good at, it was being realistic. And running.

The door was still half open before her hand pushed, changing the crack to a wide opening.

“I love you,” she said in the faintest of whispers, almost not loud enough for herself to hear.

The door closed again and so her view of Killian was obstructed. One stubborn tear fell in spite of her efforts to keep the tears at bay. Quickly, she used her thumb to flick the droplet away, letting out a big breath as she went in search of her shoes.

It had been some time since she last uttered those words, a long time even. Since Neal. Killian deserved more, deserved someone who would tell him they loved him every day with so much ease and actually mean it. Not her, who already struggled with saying it in the dark and in the middle of the night while he was asleep.

She just had to say it once. Finally voice the sentence that had popped up every time he smiled at her and crinkles formed around his eyes, every time he’d sent her soccer memes, every time he seemed to know exactly what she needed to a point where she wasn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t a telepath.

She loved him.

It was different from when she was with Neal. She was younger then, more innocent and carefree and Neal had seemed like the perfect guy for her. Even though they didn’t truly know each other. They had lived in their own secluded world, a bubble filled with running and hiding, never really being able to catch their breath to talk about more than where they were going next.

It was different from when she was with Killian, drastically so.

It was real with Killian. So real. Which was why this hurt so much.

The lock of the front door clicked behind her. Emma stood still, glancing over her shoulder one last time, pretending she somehow had X-ray vision and could see him a final time.  But in reality, all she could see was a dark, wooden door, a separation between the both of them.

She took the hood of her sweater and put it over her head before running down the stairs. She pushed the entrance door open and her skin was hit with the cold night air. There was not a soul in sight, it was the ghost hour. Slightly too late for people to still be awake, slightly too early for people to have woken already.

Emma began to walk. She’d only been in his office once; it was now months since Gold had made her sign the contract, that damned contract. After that one meeting, it had been dark corners and shady alleys, anything but highly frequented public spaces, anywhere but places where they could be seen, could be connected to one another. She didn’t expect Gold to be there right now, it was the middle of the night after all, but perhaps she could find a clue, some sort of indication where she could find him. An address, a phone number, something that would lead her to him. That was what she was focusing on right now, the rest could come later.

The street lit up with the lights of an oncoming bus and she turned her head, inspecting the line number before rushing towards the bus stop a few yards ahead, extending her hand while running to signal the driver to stop. The vehicle came to a halt and she hopped up, managing a tight-lipped smile in gratitude towards the woman. The bus was completely empty save from one man in the complete back of the bus, lost to the world as a soft snore blended with the roar of the engine. Emma picked the middle ground, the precise spot between the driver and sleeping beauty in the back, to sit down.

She let her head rest against the window, her eyes trying to register the fast-moving scene outside. The flashing lights were bright, too bright for her two-hour-of-sleep brain to handle, so she shut them. Her heart began to speed up in fear. Of how it all would end, whether it ever would. A shaking breath left her lips. Her hand went up to pinch the bridge of her nose, fingers brushing along what Emma would assume were some award-winning dark bags under her eyes.

It was too late to back down now.

Her eyes opened again, the fear dwindling as determination prospered.

She was doing this.

It took the bus a few additional minutes before they arrived at the stop closest to Gold’s office and when she more or less saw the familiar surroundings, distorted by the dark but still recognizable enough, a _ding_ alerted the bus driver of her desire to get off.  The woman complied, slowly braked and eventually stopped the bus, allowing Emma to leave.

If she remembered correctly, the office should be about a ten-minute walk from the bus stop. The lack of sunlight was not helping, however, and was only contributing to disorienting her even more. Time for the return of Google Maps, it was.

Due to one wrong turn, it took her slightly longer to reach the building than the navigation system had predicted, but she didn’t particularly mind. Reaching her destination was all that mattered.

The building wasn’t impressive as such, just your typical two-story building with a storefront on the ground floor and a side entrance that led to apartments—or an office in this case—upstairs. She knew, however, that this was a deliberate choice. It looked easy and simple enough to break in but, knowing Gold, it would not be. There would be some hidden trap. He used this tactic when it came to his contracts—make them seem agreeable enough only have some hidden clause—and Emma knew he’d do it here as well. She needed to be cautious.

It had been a while since she’d last done this, since she’d lived off of petty crime and had no qualms with it. She was now on the right side of the law, barely, but at least she hadn’t done anything downright illegal in the last ten years.

Making sure the hoodie over her head truly covered her features, Emma went inside. She immediately spied a camera pointed at the entrance and she bowed her head, avoiding a flash of her skin to be recorded on the tape.

Out of her pocket, she fished two bobby pins, using her teeth to straighten them out and turn them into tumblers. She crouched in front of the door, eyes close to the lock to inspect it, to try and figure it out while she shone the pocket light of her phone on it. She softly inserted one of the pins, her ears searching for any sound that was out of place. If she got caught like this, it was over. No one would believe she was just coincidentally trying to pick a lock. The second pin joined its companion in an intricate dance, one where every step had to be precise and correct. Shutting her eyes, she let her ears take over. After a couple of seconds of wriggling, a satisfying click brought movement to the door.

She was in.

The door creaked open, granting her passage to her single greatest enemy’s lair, giving her access to his treasures and secrets.

Emma had to be realistic, however. The chances that she’d be able to find some incriminating proof against Gold in here would be minimal. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack and she had no idea what a needle looked like. She also knew that that wyrm of a man would find a way to escape the accusations, to put the blame on her instead and walk away freely. Killian had spent years attempting to prove his guilt and he’d only come up empty-handed.

She walked over to the main office, extremely cautious about everything she saw and everything she touched. She pulled on the left sleeve of her sweater and hid her hand inside to grab the handle and open the door. There lay a large carpet covering the floor and Emma hesitantly stepped on it, only letting her feet touch the places that seemed worn enough, ratty enough to have been stepped on every single day. Following the path Gold always took, she ended up at the massive desk standing in the middle of the room.

She carefully checked the sheets of paper on the desk. Nothing. Softly opened the left drawer and took out an address book that contained about a hundred addresses but his own. Nothing. In the right drawer, she could only find a collection of gold fountain pens and fancy looking paper. _For his contracts,_ Emma thought before moving on.

There had to be something that tied back to his home or his life outside of this disreputable business he was running. What was a place she could find something that had been carelessly left? She searched around the office peering before her eyes fell on a metal paper bin which was glimmering in the bright light that her phone was emitting.

Gotcha.

Most of the paper she found in the trash was just scribbles, half printed pages of some forms, empty package boxes and Emma was about to give up, deem her only last resort useless when she came across a tiny paper. Once she picked it up she could see it was folded and as she slowly peeled back the layers, the small square became larger and larger. Her eyes scanned the paper once it was fully unfolded and came to the conclusion that it was a bill. The light on her phone got brightened until she could properly read the document. It seemed to be an order and while the delivering address was stated as this office, the billing address said something else. A sinister smile appeared on her face. She knew where to find him. 

The valuable piece of paper got folded back to its original size and got stored into her back pocket as she attempted to not leave a trace of her presence there. Books were put back in their original place, papers got stacked again, drawers were closed.

Emma followed the exact steps she took back, head held low and steps quiet. The door locked behind her again and she started running. Until her breath got out of control and she felt that she truly was far enough away from the office that if some silent alarm had gone off, no one would suspect her of being the instigator.

She retrieved the paper from her back pocket and unfolded it again, this time properly reading the address in the illumination of a lonely street light. It felt completely foreign to her, so she tapped the airplane mode of her phone off and let the map guide her again.

The sky at the horizon shifted from midnight blue to azure, an indication of what was to come. There wasn’t a lot of time left.

It took her over an hour to get to the place which gave her a lot of time to think. All the while she kept repeating the mantra in her head. She had to do this. _She had to do this._ This was not the time to get cold feet. Not when she was so close to him. The urbanization had slowly vanished, filtered out and was infiltrated with green, a vast surface of trees and bushes, decorating the brown soil.

The sun began to rise, the previously dark woodland now dusted in the gold of dawn. The warm yellow rays hit her skin, lighting it up and while the rain dew still drifted through the air and covered the ground, she embraced the tiny fragment of heat she’d been gifted wholeheartedly.

It had to be one of the cabins that were scattered around the forest.

Having no idea which direction she was supposed to go, she could only explore. She walked around, an odd branch snapping under her shoes. The grass was long, brushing against her boots as she walked with a steady step. She was a woman on a mission.

The first cabin she came across was not even close to the cabin number she was heading for, Emma sighing at the longer search before returning to the main road, a path of worn, flat grass, and continuing her quest of finding the number that corresponded with the one typed on the bill.

She was expecting to find a locked door but still grabbed the handle with her sleeve to test it, more out of reflex than anything else. Emma frowned and surprise hit her as the handle didn’t get stuck halfway but went all the way down, granting her access to the building.

Was Gold that careless? That seemed unlike him. But who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth?

With the utmost stealth, she pushed the door open, her eyes racing to take in everything there was, to be able to prepare herself for any threat that might present itself.

It was still early enough to catch him asleep, the light still faint enough for Emma to be somewhat hidden, to be somewhat able to take advantage of the trace of darkness that still tainted the sky.

She breathed in and a musty air hit her nostrils, a stark contrast with the crisp, outside air. That air had been young, rejuvenating and the one she was currently breathing was old. It symbolized stagnance and immobility. Obsolescence.

Her nose scrunched as the scent now took complete control, but she attempted to ignore that sense and focus on the other, her eyes and ears specifically were vital here. Emma continued her venture inside, now actually stepping into the room the front door led to. Trepidation roiled in her gut, how was she supposed to react? What was she going to find inside?

Emma looked around the cabin and...

It was empty.

Not only empty but deserted. A thick layer of dust covered the table and cabinets, delicate cobwebs were spun in the corners, decorating the room like garlands. There was not a single sign someone had been here recently, not one clean surface or filled cupboard. Emma checked the other rooms but they more or less bore the same story. Filthy, empty, abandoned.

She went back to the piece of paper and the map on her phone. The blue dot on her screen glowed, telling her she was right, this was the place.

But how could it? How on earth could this neglected cabin in the woods be important to Gold?

Emma’s brow furrowed, eyes scanning the room over and over again, trying to find some clue, some passage that magically appeared after pulling a secret lever. But there was no magic to be found, no hidden treasure.

She didn't understand. He should be here. He was supposed to be here and then she could… take him out. Protect Killian. This was why she was doing this, to protect him. If she couldn’t, what was there left to do? If she couldn’t, it meant that this whole escapade had been for nothing. That she’d left him for nothing.

Fuck, what had she done?

She had to get back to Killian.

Before he woke, before he realized she’d left, before it was too late to turn back the clock. She had to run, had to rush back home.

Home.

She stopped moving, froze with her feet nailed to the dusty wooden floor, her hands limp next to her body and her eyes wide as she realized what she just thought.

Home.

She’d thought about home.

The place that gave you a warm feeling, the place you could be yourself, one hundred percent. The place where Emma was comfortable, with walls that dampened the need to run, with things that made her feel like she was a part of something, with people that made her feel loved.

And now, after a mere four months, Killian had somehow become synonymous to home?

She loved him, had admitted it earlier that morning but this meant more than that. She’d loved before. She’d never truly felt at home. An eternal orphan at heart; she was never completely at ease. Mary Margaret and David’s apartment had felt like a safe haven for some time but one she couldn’t stay at forever and had to leave after a couple of hours at most. They could tell her she was welcome anytime as much as they liked but Emma didn’t even want to come close to overstaying her welcome. So she left, ignoring the offer of another drink or dessert with some half-baked truth of having to start work early or just a plain lie like that she wasn’t that much of a Rocky Road fan anyways.

But being with Killian felt like home.

And she wasn’t about to risk that.

Emma spun around and bolted out of the cabin, the door slamming shut in her wake.

Her feet moved on instinct, taking her to the gravel road uphill, the fastest way to return the way she came. Time was of the essence here.

The sun’s rays suddenly felt too warm as she ran down the road, her jacket too impeding as she tried to run faster and faster. That gym membership she was thinking of getting would’ve come in handy right about now.

In the distance, against the backlight of the rising sun, a blurry figure emerged. The closer Emma got, the more details became visible. She still had to narrow her eyes to fight against the bright light. It was a man. A man stood in the middle of the road, blocking her way. She knew that face, recognized the long, greasy locks and grey stubble, angry sneer furling his lips.

“You.” She came to a halt. Her brow furrowed as she blinked in confusion. Gold’s minion had resurfaced. His presence here meant she was right about this being Gold’s cabin. And she hadn’t been careful enough earlier.

Or maybe this was all part of an elaborate plan and she’d done exactly what Gold had wanted her to do.

Lost in thought, Emma hadn’t noticed the man coming closer to her, his heavy steps crunching on the road as the distance between them became threateningly narrow.

“This is for last time, you bitch,” he spat at her, an odd accent coloring his words and a fist following promptly.

Emma ducked, more out of instinct than strategy, but both would do the trick here.

The seriousness of the situation hit her as if the man’s fist hadn’t missed its target. He wasn’t aiming to miss. She needed to leave and try and outrun him. In the blink of an eye, she went from immobile to moving but the man was fast too, his hand snatching her arm and harshly pulling her back. She flinched as the pain radiated through her body.

Before the sensation could leave, another wave of pain smashed into her cheek.

“Aren’t you sick of playing his little minion?”

She spit before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her chest heaved vehemently as she tried to catch her breath and regain her stamina.

“That’s who you think I am?” he replied in an irritating sneer.

She frowned at the amusement in his voice. She pushed him off, losing her balance and falling on the ground, her face ending up in the grey gravel. The small stones painfully dug into her skin. Emma scrambled back up as he towered over her.

“My name is Malcolm Gold.” And the way he said it wasn't completely unlike the way Draco Malfoy had introduced himself to Harry Potter, a self-righteous importance that hung in the air.

He seemed too old to be a son, too young to be his father, so that only left the possibility of a brother.

“And my brother sends his regards.”

He kicked her down again and for a second everything went blurry, unfocused. Her attacker turned his head to something she couldn’t see from her uncomfortable spot on the ground but it seemed to spook him enough that he cast one last glance at her, an unsatisfied look on his face, and ran away again.

What a little imp. It was clearly a family trait.

Emma coughed, clutching her ribs as breathing hurt, clutching her ribs as trying to get up hurt.

There was a crunching sound coming from somewhere close and it took Emma a while to realize it had to be some kind of car.

Was it Killian? Did he find her?

But the crunching sound left as fast as it had emerged and she was still hurting, struggling to get up from the ground.

It wasn’t him, he couldn’t find her.

She was all alone.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're used to it by now so I won't even comment on the cliffhanger. Please like, reblog, leave a kudos if you're enjoying this story and if you want me to love you even more, you can always leave a comment. Only seven more days until the next chapter!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm keeping it short today because I have an exam tomorrow (the last one yay!) and on Saturday I'm going back home after five months abroad so I have a lot of luggage to pack
> 
> Thanks to my betas acourtoftruelove and ofshipsandswans and my artist shady-swan-jones!

 

Emma trudged up the stairs, her body screaming in disagreement with the movement. She reached the second floor, almost weeping in relief as she saw the familiar door. She’d been walking for hours—limping was more accurate—wandering through the city without any real destination, without any real purpose. Rain had fallen down, poured down from the sky and had drenched Emma to the bone. She didn’t know what to do but her body clearly did as her mindless wandering had made her end up in front of Killian’s building.

She stood before his door but she hesitated, did not approach it or open it. She couldn’t really explain why she came here of all places, why she sought him out. She should’ve just gone home, tended to her own wounds, and leave the one she would create now to deal with later.

Cover the bruises until they’d faded, hide the cuts until they’d healed. Hole herself up until she’d regained her composure and wasn’t on the verge of breaking down at every waking moment.

She’d left in the middle of the night, however, like a thief in the night and he didn’t know why. He would think she regretted spending the night with him. Maybe he’d even suspect she’d only slept with him to make him change his mind **.** He was going to be hurt and the anger towards her would resurface, perhaps even worse, even more furious than last time. Emma was certain Killian would be livid as well when he heard what she did, especially after he’d specifically told her not to. Livid and disappointed. Still, that would be easier to bear than the furiousness. More rightfully deserved.

So she knocked lightly, her free hand tugging on the dark hoodie she was wearing to shield her face. She moved her weight from left to right, from one foot to the other as she nervously waited. What if he wasn’t home? What if he was making his way to the police station right now to press charges and she was here too late?

She tried to control her breathing, willed her heart to stop furiously pounding inside her chest.

At last, the door swung open.

He was home at least, hadn’t rushed to the police like she earlier feared. But the sight of him didn’t seem awfully positive either. The first thing Emma thought was  _ frantic _ . He looked frantic, eyes blown wide, hair a mess as if he’d spent hours and hours running his hand through.

All of that disappeared, however, as Emma gazed up from her hoodie, revealing the purple edge around her eye, the red slash on her cheek.

Confusion soared.

He seemed unsure what to do first, his eyes traveling all over her body, taking in the scene before him and what it told him. He did not look like he was pleased as he stepped back into his apartment and widened the door in a silent invitation. Keeping her eyes glued to the ground, Emma accepted and walked into the living room.

A flood of memories almost drowned her. God, it had only been less than twenty-four hours and still it felt like a lifetime. Since they talked. Since they kissed. Since they confessed their feelings. All of which was back to being uncertain, unsure if it was still the case with him. She had a way of making bad bets that risked everything.

She took her jacket off and the hoodie with it, only leaving her in an oversized shirt that made her look smaller and frailer than she actually was. She was happy she was wearing it, though; it was also the only thing she would feel comfortable in, the only thing she could wear to not be confronted with the truth again and again. Her wet hair stuck to her cheeks, messy and tangled and Emma had an inkling she looked like a sad, wet dog. That was how Killian regarded her at least.

She could see the pity in his irises, discern the sorrow in the way his lips curled downwards and his anger in the way his hand clenched.

What she would give to be in his warm and protecting arms right now.

They stood there for a moment, him watching her and Emma attempting to suppress the shivers wracking her body. The wheels were turning in Killian’s head, searching for a solution to the question of how he should behave towards her, yet again.

“What happened?” he asked, surely to attempt and answer that enigma again.

Emma felt the chills take over but they weren’t caused by the cold. She saw her sight go blurry and sensed her lips starting to quiver.

“I went to Gold,” she said, the shame and regret coloring her words dark, a shade she’d rather keep in the shadows where it belonged.

He took the words in and frowned as he thought them over. Silence wrapped around them.

“What do you mean ‘you went to Gold’?” he finally asked.

She rubbed her palms over the cold, rigid skin of her lower arms. Whether it was to create heat or to protect herself wasn’t clear.

“I wanted to make sure he couldn’t hurt us anymore.”

“Emma. Are you kidding? After I told you not to? That’s why you left in the middle of the night?”

“I’m sorry.”

He turned away from her.

“God, you risked your life yet again?”

She didn’t reply, they could both see and feel the answer to that question.

She felt like hiding even more, attempting to stretch the short sleeves of her shirt to cover more bare skin, to cover more bruises.

Killian saw what she was doing.

“Let me look at you,” he said, his voice painfully gentle. His finger settled on her chin and moved it upwards. She averted her eyes, she didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes. She moved her head along as he turned it sideways, revealing the large, sore bruise on her cheek. His thumb ventured out to caress the patch of blue on her pale skin. A soft hiss escaped her lips, making Killian drop his hand immediately, the moment over as fast as it had come. “Emma, you should see a doctor,” he concluded, “Let me take you to a hospital.”

“No, I don’t want to.” She met his gaze while shaking her head. “They’ll ask questions.”

“Then you lie. You should get this checked out.”

“No! Please,” she begged.

Killian sighed. “What can I do?”

There was only one thing Emma could think of, only one thing that would keep her from disintegrating into a puddle of tears and misery. She now realized it was the reason she came here, the dull throbbing in her body not a side effect of what had transpired earlier but a driving force that had led her here to be remedied. And the only cure was him.

“Could you just hold me?” She hated the way she sounded, the small voice in which she said even smaller words but it did represent how she felt exactly. Small and helpless. There was no use in hiding that.

He sighed and closed the distance again, his arms carefully wrapping around her. Emma was encircled by his body, his smell, him and pure tranquility overcame her. She felt his lips press a kiss to her still wet hair and the act of tenderness gave permission to her tears to finally fall, the warm liquid stinging against the wounds on her face.

“Why the fuck did you think it was necessary to be all stupid and heroic?”

And there was one simple answer that lay on the tip of her tongue, but Emma swallowed it back in and hugged Killian a bit tighter.

For the longest time, only their breaths sounded through the room, the intake of air becoming calming and quieter as their heartbeats beating in synchronicity each other and their pulse decelerated.

“You didn’t pick up your phone.”

A stab of guilt hit her heart. She’d put her phone on airplane mode to avoid leaving any digital traces of her trip to both Gold’s office and his office and, if she was being honest, to prevent her from having contact with Killian. She was certain that once he’d get ahold of her, he would talk her out of it. Or the hurt in his voice would be too much to bear and she’d come running back to him, trying to save whatever there was left to save.

“It was off,” she admitted, her arms curling a bit more around his shoulders.

“You could’ve left a note,” he told her.

“I know,” she whispered back.

She’d considered it but there had been nothing she could’ve put in that note that would make him worry less, nothing that would have avoided this situation.

“I thought it was all a dream at first. And then I thought it was all part of the act again.”

“It wasn’t.” She shook her head against his chest. “I promise.”

Killian released her from the embrace, his broad hand smoothing over her damp hair.

“What if you were more badly hurt, Emma? What if he’d left you there for dead?"

It was a question that had a terrible outcome, a scenario Emma should thank her stars that did not come true.

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

For every lie, every ounce of betrayal he had felt, every–

Everything

“We’ll talk about in the morning. Do you want to stay here?”

Emma nodded vigorously. “Yes, please.”

Just the thought of descending the stairs again, walking the entire way home made her feel weary, exhausted.

“You can take the bed,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

He began to move, preparing their sleeping arrangements, but Emma stood still, feet stuck to the wooden floor. Sensing her fixation, Killian turned around with questioning eyes.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she mumbled in reply.

The fear, a small glowing orb inside her body, wouldn’t go away. It was an erratic emotion, but what if she wasn’t truly safe here. Gold could find her, could find him and do even more unspeakable things to them. Only being close to him could help her settle a little bit, managed to take the uneasiness away.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she continued, hoping that he understood what she was saying and all of the meaning that lay behind the words.

“Are you certain?” A crease appeared between his brows.

“Are you?”

Repeating the question to avoid answering just how certain she was about it might not have been the best tactic but it was a genuine concern of hers. He had been the victim in this whole ordeal. She had been the one to inflict all of the pain. So the question wasn’t if she was sure of it (she was), it was if he was okay with it.

“Let’s go to bed, Swan.” And it was as much a dismissal as it was an invitation **.**

Her eyes fell on the bed. The anchor sheets were gone, a plain black had taken their place and she didn’t want to think about how the change might’ve been warranted by what had taken place here yesterday, what they had done in those anchor sheets and what she’d done afterwards. She didn’t want to think about it but she did. Her gaze was stuck on the sheets.

“You’d better not sleep in wet clothes. I will find you something more comfortable.”

He rummaged through his closet and delved a pair of sweatpants and a faded T-shirt out of it. Walking back to her, he offered them and she accepted.

Emma had to clear her throat before being able to answer a timid thanks.

She made a move to start changing her clothes in the room but was interrupted by Killian speaking. “The bathroom is through there.”

Releasing the hem of her shirt, it fell down again. She walked over to the bathroom and once the door shut, she let her head rest against the wall. Maybe this was all a mistake.

It took some time to peel off her clothes, still damp due to the rain. Every time she bent, she felt the ache building up in her back, every time she stretched, it pulled on her shoulders. Emma watched herself in the mirror and struggled to recognize herself. She looked completely and utterly exhausted and she was, both physically and mentally. The bruise on her cheek had become a dark purple, the cuts an angry red. The locks of her hair were impossibly tangled and she attempted to get rid of the knots at first, fervently combing through them with her fingers, but then gave up. Tears rose, the powerlessness making itself known again.

A knock sounded on the door and made her break her stare on her mirror image.

“Emma, are you alright? You’ve been in there for a while,” was said from the other side of the door.

She wanted to answer that yes, she was alright, but she couldn’t, her mouth wouldn’t form the words. It was a lie either way, she was far from alright.

Eventually, Killian took the silence as an answer. The door opened and he stepped into the bathroom, worry in his eyes as he searched for her.

He spoke as he took in her face again, tears and all. “We’d best disinfect these.”

-/-

Emma couldn’t sleep; her thoughts were hyperactive, screaming too loudly, racing inside of her mind. It had been silent in the room for a while now but Killian wasn’t asleep either. She could sense his body tensing with every move she made, with every rustle against the sheets she caused.

Turning to face him, she opened her eyes and saw him staring at the ceiling, features barely visible in the dimmed light.

“You need to sleep, Killian.”

Her insomnia was a lost cause and would only let her get some rest when it felt like it but at least one of them should get some sleep. If Killian was, for some reason, waiting on her falling asleep before he did, he was going to have to wait a long time.

“So you can leave again?” he questioned, voice as rough as the words it formed.

She deserved that one. He didn’t trust her to stay and honestly, she wouldn’t trust her either if the roles were reversed.

“I won’t,” she assured him.

“Forgive me for not believing your assurances in this current situation.”

“I’m not going to leave again, Killian.”

He stared at her, the sliver of moonlight that crept in falling onto his face and highlighting the blue of his eyes. But the silvery color lacked warmth, made the usually vibrant cyan cold as ice. A chill ran up her spine.

“I swear,” she reiterated, hoping he’d at least give it a shot trust her, even if it was only for a tiny bit.

He shut his eyes and turned on his side, facing away from her. The blankets got pulled higher and he made himself comfortable in bed. Emma was still watching him, his back rather. Was this supposed to be a positive sign? An indication to say that he believed her? It didn’t feel like one. She was about to try and conquer her insomnia—try and will herself to sleep in the uncomfortable silence—when Killian spoke one last time.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, likes, reblogs are always appreciated! Already wishing you a happy Christmas if you celebrate!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, it's crazy that this is already the penultimate chapter, where has time gone? 
> 
> Major thanks to my betas @acourtoftruelove and @ofshipsandswans and my incredible artist @shady-swan-jones

She drifted in and out of sleep, a shallow one where her conscience seemed to resurface with every quiet noise, every small movement. She was on edge, body tensed until Killian moved closer and Emma felt her heartbeat slow down, her breathing decelerate, her eyes fall shut.

-/-

Emma woke up with a throbbing headache, she flinched when the light hit her eyes. As she checked the small, digital clock on the bedside table, memories of yesterday returned. She remembered how Killian’s hand caressed her face, the way he disinfected the cut on her cheek, rubbing the cotton ball so gently against her marred skin; she still felt the tingle of his kiss on the bruise on her cheek, how it somehow had magical properties, taking away the pain, even if just for a second.

She turned in the black sheets, her hand venturing out to pat the empty patch of bed next to her. The sheets were cool, no sign or remnant of the body heat that had laid on it during the night. He must’ve gotten up a while ago.

The sheets carried a trace of the perfumed scent of washing powder, a soft haze that was contrasted by Killian’s smell on his pillow, sharp and musky. The combination of the two made her head spin, the smells too incompatible to be pleasant.

Emma felt disoriented, the long sleep seeming almost more harmful than remedying at this point, with a sore throat, clammy skin and bursting headache. And still, she wanted to go back to sleep. Burrow herself back into those bundle of fabric and doze until she entered a deep sleep that would erase her memories, until she woke up feeling like something remotely herself; she wouldn’t settle for less.

Once upon a time, she believed in the sanctuary of sleep, that there was no ailment too grave that a good night’s sleep could not conquer.

That time seemed to have passed.

In the end, it was the rumble of her stomach that sent Emma out of bed, that stopped her from closing her eyes again. Her last meal had been… God, she couldn’t even remember. Did she eat something at noon? Nothing more than a hasty snack stuffed into her mouth as she rushed away from the place she’d expected Gold to be.

Her body screamed with ache as she moved, slowly and distorting her face, clenching her teeth to keep from crying out. The last thing Killian needed to hear right now was her wailing, it would only make him more worried. Possibly more angry.

She understood what yesterday was but she knew Killian enough that he’d want to discuss this. He would never just let it be overlooked, as much as she would like that; he’d want to talk until there was not so much as a worry in sight, until all of the skeletons had been found and the closets were empty. Emma dreaded it, with all her being, but the alternative wasn’t any better.

They couldn’t dance around each other, both on edge, neither saying what haunted their minds and what tormented their thoughts.

She placed her hand on the light wood of the door, her palm touching the surface and pushing it open, only a crack, but enough to invite the smell of coffee and something baked in. Emma almost moaned as the scent that equated morning for so many hit her nostrils. She stood there for a while, her hand almost a lifeline holding her steady. It was simultaneously holding her back, however. From opening it further, from taking those steps, from meeting Killian’s eyes.

Another cry for food was emitted by her stomach, angry this time, ready to explode like a toddler who did not get their way having a tantrum.

Finally, she launched some strength into her connection with the door, a little too much by how it swung open, almost hitting the wall that surrounded it. She scrunched up the sleeves of the loose sweater until they hung loosely around her elbows, and rearranged her pants. Her hair and face were left alone because, even though she couldn’t see herself, Emma was quite certain that those were far from salvageable.

The tiles of the hallway felt cold under her bare feet, making Emma skitter along them which made that she ended up in the living room way faster than she had planned. There was a soft whirring, a CD being played and the subdued click as a next song was prepared and ready to be heard.

As a first, her eyes scanned the kitchen and table but no sign of Killian. Only of a small stack of pancakes, some yogurt and fruit, and an assortment of juice and coffee spread out across the table. Emma couldn’t help but sigh at the sight.

He’d done this for her.

He could’ve kicked her out once the sun had risen, shut the door with no more than a goodbye and he would’ve had every right. Emma would have understood.

But he did not.

Instead, he made her breakfast.

“Morning.”

Emma whirled around, heart suddenly beating ten times faster at the sound of his voice.

There he sat.

The picture of domesticity.

He was wearing a grey sweater and loose black pants, seated on a chair that fell just out of Emma’s field of view. His one leg was crossed over the other, a newspaper resting on his knee. His face was neutral, not a crinkle or feature out of place that could betray his thoughts right this moment. No, he just stared at her with the pair of glasses that resided on the bridge of his nose.

She stared back. Until she realized he had said something.

“Morning,” Emma croaked back, far too late to be polite.

Her answer seemed to peel off a layer of Killian’s mask, the indifference making way for concern.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

“Okay,” she replied, shifting from one bare foot to the other. She wanted to tell him how it was all thanks to him, how his presence had been an anchor for her in a stormy sea of strait, but it all felt too cliché to actually utter, too vulnerable and sentimental to try and express. A couple of heartbeats passed, she was all too aware of them. “Thanks for letting me stay again.”

Killian shrugged, the movement causing even more of the neutrality to fade away. He closed the newspaper and laid it on the little coffee table next to him.

“Don’t mention it, Swan. Couldn’t very well let you roam the streets while you were hurt.”

Like she had said earlier, he would have had every right to.

His eyes flashed back to her face, presumably the cut that resided there. She should’ve looked in the mirror before she came out to check the damage that had been done to them, to avoid the way he was presently looking at her.

“Not everyone would’ve been that kind to someone who has betrayed them,” she stated.

Killian sighed and combed through his hair, a clear response to her remark.

“We will discuss this later,” he said, “You have a breakfast to get through and I think you haven’t eaten in quite a while.”

Which he thought correctly.

She flashed him a grateful smile, the first one her face bore in quite a while. She seemed surprised by herself as the corners of her lips turned upwards and attempted to look away to hide it.

Killian grabbed the newspaper from the coffee table again and unfolded it, going back to the last page he’d previously read. The gesture said that he was releasing her from talking, so Emma sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and made herself comfortable, pouring a mug of coffee.

Emma had never been a morning person. She did not see the allure of waking up with the sun; she preferred sleeping in, until the time she would wake up couldn’t technically be categorized as morning anymore. When she woke up—once she woke up—she needed at least an hour of sipping liters of coffee to be brought back to life and to find her voice again and from the looks of it, Killian was granting her time. Giving her some peace and calm to enjoy her breakfast and come back to herself before.

As she ate and enjoyed the food that he’d made for her—with an exquisite talent for cooking, she had to admit—Emma watched Killian out of the corner of her eyes. She watched how he was at peace, reading comfortably and unguarded in the safety of his home. There was a new wave of gratitude for him that overcame her. He let her stay here and risked having this bubble of calm being interrupted by Gold. He was so much better than she was and Emma had no idea what to do with that information. She was too selfish to actually admit it to him and to part ways.

Killian’s newspaper had been read and discarded at the side of the chair and Emma was resorting to pushing her food around, her stomach full and sated. There were waves of expectancy emitted from around him, telling her she couldn’t postpone this anymore. Taking a deep but silent breath, she stood up, taking her almost empty bowl with her and placing it into the sink.

She could feel Killian’s eyes on her, following her movements, his gaze quickly averted as she turned towards him and walked towards where he was sitting. The couch—the one where she could still picture them facing the television, munching on popcorn, so carefree and unscarred—remained empty so Emma went and sat down, crossing her legs beneath her to make herself more comfortable and bracing herself in the smooth material to prepare herself for what was to come.

“Say what you need to say,” Emma said, wanting to get straight to the point.

Killian’s eyes narrowed at her direct request and he turned his chair around to face her even more, slightly moving forward to get closer to her.

“We do need to discuss this, Emma,” he declared.

“I know.”

Emma put her clasped hands in her lap, worriedly fidgeting with her fingers and her sleeves and it seemed as if he had noticed it; it only took a moment before Killian left his solitary chair and went to occupy the empty space next to her, to minimize the distance between them, both physically and mentally.

“What you did yesterday was not alright, Emma. I told you not to go and there was a reason I said that. I didn’t want you to be anywhere near danger.”

Her eyes found the ground.

“I had to do it,” she defended herself.

He scoffed in disbelief, clearly not buying what she said.

“No,” Killian objected, “You did not. What you should have done was leave it alone. There was no use for you to go and risk your life as if it means nothing.”

The tone of his voice rose.

Emma stood up and walked away from the couch for a moment before turning around. “After all I’ve done?” She looked him dead in the eye, the disgust towards herself overt, out in the open. “I had to make up for it somehow.”

She bit her lip nervously as she saw him shake his head in unmistakable disagreement.

“Do you know how you should’ve made up for it?” he asked, rising from the couch as well and bringing them back to the same level. Emma didn’t reply, she could sense the answer coming. “By showing I meant something to you. By coming here, talking, not bloody leaving in the middle of the night after we had sex to do some stupid ‘I don’t care about my life, let’s risk it all’ act.”

“I already did it, I can’t take it back, okay?” Her hands flew in the air. “I’m sorry I tried to make things right.”

“You’re sorry? Emma, bloody hell! Do you not get it? You would’ve done me no favors if you had ended up dead in some gutter. None at all,“ he stipulated. He looked away from her, let his head drop into his palm in utter desperation and let his eyes shut. His chest expanded as he took a breath and his blue irises found hers again, Emma silently gasping at the emotion that hit her. Killian spoke softly this time, but his words resonated as if he’d yelled them. “I don’t know—” He paused, searching for his words, his usual eloquence clouded by his emotions. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had died. I—There is no way I could’ve coped with that. This… It seems way too unhealthy, Emma. I cannot keep doing this.” He sounded so defeated, helpless and yet again, it was her fault. He was fine before she came along.

She took him in again, saw the confusing mix of about a dozen emotions swirling in his eyes.

“Then we won’t,” Emma replied, ignoring the bursting pain deep in her chest, ignoring the deafening beep in her ears.

The distance between them grew as Killian took a step back, a flash of hurt across his features as he looked taken aback.

“You would be okay with that? I mean that little to you?”

The consternation in his eyes felt real enough and the quiver in his voice seemed to be the right frequency to break her heart. It was the opposite but if he did not think this was worth it, if it did him more bad than good, she would not force him, not after what she'd done. He deserved his freedom, he of all people deserved more than her.

“It’s the opposite, Killian.”

He meant that much to her.

“Which is why,” she continued, “it’s best I leave.”

Supporting the statement she had just made, she began to step away from the couch, from him, mentally planning what she’d do next.

Probably return to the States. The not-so-prodigal child, coming back as a failure. Her friends not uttering the _I told you so_ ’s clamoring in their heads, because she seemed sad enough already, broken enough already by things they would probably never find out about, memories she would keep bottled up behind those walls of hers because digging it all up would be too painful.

Maybe she’d do some soul searching, improve herself and all of her flaws, maybe even find her way again after being lost for so long. Try and forget him by keeping as busy as possible, assume he was doing perfectly fine without her.

Emma walked until she couldn’t anymore. Until a warm hand wrapped around her elbow and stopped her from continuing. Prevented her from leaving. Her pulse sped up and she was pretty sure Killian could feel it too.

“Don’t leave,” he said, his prosthetic settling on her hip, his hand moving upwards, an excruciatingly slow and gentle path from her elbow to the apple of her cheek. “This chaos has left my mind quite muddled but I do know one thing and that is that I cannot let you leave. I could never accept you walking out of this door, disappearing to God knows where and me never seeing you again. Not like this, not after all we went through.”

“Killian, you just said I’m not good for you.”

“I’m perfectly aware of what I said and I stand by my words. However, you were put into some difficult predicaments the past couple of weeks, a part of which was admittedly your own fault. We need to change how we are with each other, Emma. The lying needs to stop, even if it is to protect me. It is about time we are completely frank with one another. I’ll begin: I don’t want us to quit. Not before we’ve even started.”

“I don’t know, Killian.” She looked away, needing to break the connection between them to be able to think, to come up with arguments he could not refute. She hadn’t expected him to want to fight for them, had deemed their relationship—whatever it may be—a lost cause and it hurt to admit, but that was convenient. It was what she did best, leaving and starting over. She had no idea how to even be in a relationship, how to quench the urge to run. What if she stayed and it suddenly resurfaced. It would kill her to leave him.

“I fuck things up. Clearly,” she heaved, using their recent past as an example. “I endanger people.”

“Gold was already chasing me before you entered the picture.”

“Yeah, but I made it worse. You shouldn’t try to justify my actions. I am bad for you and you are way too good for me.”

At some point, he would realize that too, see that he’d been wasting his time with her and that she wasn’t worth all of the trouble it took to be with her. And the only thing that would hurt more than having to leave him, was him leaving her.

“Swan. Not this crap, not again,” he pleaded.

“Why have you suddenly forgiven me?” She wanted to know how he could when she couldn’t even forgive herself.

“Because I know a thing or two about self-loathing and I know that when someone else does believe, it makes the hate slightly fade away. So, yes. I am going to forgive you for what you’ve done and you are going to try to forgive yourself.”

“And we’re just moving past this?”

“We are.” The resolution in his voice was omnipresent. “Give me time, Emma. I will get there even if it might take me some time. But you have to forget about Gold. Forget that he’s still here, because it’ll prevent you from fully living life and that’s something I cannot recommend. Trust me.”

“I have to go.”

His face fell and he stepped away from her to give her some space. It felt like he was giving her permission to leave even if it hurt to hear the words after the speech he’d just held. She should probably clarify what she meant.

“My phone is almost out of battery and I desperately need a shower but if it’s alright with you, I can maybe come back tomorrow? And we can talk some more?”

“You are welcome here anytime, Swan.” A corner of his lips quirked up.

She managed to smile back, before resuming her path to the front door.

“Wait,” he stopped her. “Can I have your phone?” Killian held out his hand with the request, his palm a flat surface for her to deposit it, which she did, respecting his order. As he clicked to unlock the device, he was met with Emma’s security code. The phone was turned to face her again before she swiftly tapped the six-figure code and granted him unregulated access to her phone and every secret it contained.

Turning the screen back to him and simultaneously hiding his actions from Emma, Killian clicked and typed. With wonder, her eyebrows crunched, curious about what he was doing.

“I hereby lift the ban on calling me. Rest assured, I will not alert the police if you do.”

“Thank you so much. I feel so honored, you really shouldn’t have.” With an edge of sarcasm and bite to her words.

Killian ceremoniously bowed and Emma smiled at the sign that their banter had returned, not as unhinged and inhibited as before but getting there. They had a long way to go but at least they weren’t stuck on the emergency lane.

And she left with a positive feeling, the weight she’d been dragging along suddenly discarded and hidden somewhere out of plain sight. She could breathe again, feel again, smile again without it restricting her movements, turning each and every one of them painful.

She could not wait until she could dive into her own bed, smell the comforting smell of cherry blossom that was imbued into her sheets and sleep for the rest of the foreseeable future.

-/-

She opened an eyelid while rubbing her face. If she were to believe the light coming from behind her curtains, the sun had already set.

Emma had one more stop to make today and if she was lucky, he’d already be open. So she dressed, applied some makeup to her face to lessen the bruises a little bit, make her seem less bruised and battered than she actually was.

She left her apartment and walked the two blocks it would take her to arrive at the store. As always the bell rang once she entered and Samir looked up from his phone, his eyes widening once he recognized her.

“Emma!” He left the counter to step towards her and hugged her. “God, I was worried about you,” he said once they broke apart again.

“I’m okay,” she tried to reassure him, her hand squeezing his arm.

“What happened?”

Emma sighed, going through her blonde tresses with her hand.

“You got a minute?” It would take longer than a minute to explain the entire situation to him, but it felt like something she had to do. He was her friend and he knew nothing about what had been going on in her life. And who knew, perhaps telling a third, objective party everything would help her sort some things out too.

“For you? Of course. Come, we’ll go out back.” His head motioned towards a curtain separating the shop with what she presumed was a storage space. He led her to a table with two chairs across from each other and motioned her to sit down.

“I don’t think we’ll be interrupted,” he said while also sitting down. “Today is usually a more quiet day.” His dark eyes landed on her, telling Emma he was waiting for the story. Here it went.

“I met a guy—”

“Did he do this?” Samir cut her off indignantly, his hand pointing at the wounds on her face. “Emma, do you need help?”

“Easy, Samir,” she attempted to calm him down and prevent him from jumping to conclusions. It was a complicated tale and he needed to hear all of it.  “He had nothing to do with it. It was my fault. Let me tell the story, okay?”

He didn’t seem completely convinced by her reassurances but nodded either way, pursing his lips and returning his full attention to her and the story she had to tell.

And so she began to summarize the last couple of months, the whirlwind of events that had taken place over the span of little more than a dozen weeks, only leaving out a couple details that weren’t her story to tell, like why Killian and Gold were enemies exactly. She talked about her job and how she and Killian had gotten closer. She mentioned the soccer match and the boat ride and ended with everything that had transpired today.

“And then I went home and came here.” She looked at Samir who was currently frowning deeply, lines appearing in the brown skin of his forehead.

“Wow, that is some tale.” His head lightly moved from left to right as he tried to process everything he had just been told.

“Yeah,” Emma puffed, “I know.”

He rested his chin on his balled hand and seemed deep in thought before he looked up again.

“And you’re sure of it? Of him?” he specified.

“I am.” A small smile appeared as she nodded. “More than anything.”

It was all Samir needed to hear as the frown on his face disappeared completely and a tentative smile took its place.

“Good,” he told her, sincerity in his voice. “I want to see you happy. I  _ don’t _ want to see you here at midnight to buy ice cream and wine.”

“Hey,” she protested. “That was one time.”

One time when she was in the midst of an ‘Anne with an E’ binge-watch (damn you, Gilbert Blythe) and she felt an urge—no the need—for ice cream. The wine was just a lovely bonus.

“Well, it doesn’t exactly scream happy single to me, Emma.“

Why was she letting a twenty-three-year-old lecture her? She was the elder in this situation and the saying was respect your elders, not “be brutally honest with them.”

“Wow, I’ll definitely come back here, Samir. Maybe I should find myself another ice cream and wine provider,” she threatened.

A gasp left his lips.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.”

They held a staring contest, their eyebrows, his dark, hers lighter, challenging each other, teasing until one gave up and let the other’s claim for victory be ascertained.

Emma began laughing and Samir’s snort joined.

“It’s good to see you laughing again, Rocky Road.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come back once more next Thursday for the last chapter. And happy New Year people, I hope 2019 will treat you kindly and with the love you deserve <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the last chapter. This is such a surreal moment because after more than a year this story is over and done. 
> 
> One last thank you to @ofshipsandswans and @acourtoftruelove. Honestly, I can't even properly express how important these two have been for this fic, its successful completion, and just in my life in general. I both love you loads.
> 
> Not to forget my amazing artist @shady-swan-jones who has made epic art for this fic, who is just such a lovely person and who, out of all the possible fics, picked mine, for which I am very thankful.
> 
> Without further ado, one last time, A Muted Hue of Grey

“Emma, no.”

“Killian.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Emma,” he repeated, his blue eyes serious as he kept eye contact and shook his head.

She rolled her eyes before returning the look.

“I have to go home,” she said.

“No, you don’t,” he disagreed.

His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back to him. The bedcovers shifted, baring her legs as she attempted to wriggle out of his hold and get out of bed.

“I haven’t been home in three days,” she told him, reminding him of how one evening together had shifted into a night together which had then merged into another one and another.

Not that she had any qualms with it.

None whatsoever.

Especially with the way his lips were pressing feather-light kisses against her spine.

“Stay.”

Emma couldn’t bring herself to say no. Not to him, not to the way his hair was so playfully mussed, not when the crinkles near his eyes appeared again, not when they were in such a good place.

“Okay.”

-/-

They hadn’t been in this place for long. It had taken a lot of talking and arguing and reasoning to get there. A lot of hurting and painful introspective. But it had been for the best and so she’d endured it. He had too. Because they thought it was worth it.

And honestly, it was worth every tear that had been shed, every long silence that had taken place.

What she got in return was more than anything she could’ve hoped for.

-/-

“Doesn’t it bother you that he’s still free?”

Killian looked up from his book, his brow instantly furrowing. He didn’t need more to know who she was talking about; they hadn’t mentioned his name in weeks, hadn’t encountered him in the time of peace they’d received.

But it had been nagging Emma. He was still out there and as much as they could try and ignore his existence, he still roamed around London being his psychopath self.

Something she struggled with. Call it a savior complex but it felt unfair to have been such a big part of his malfeasance and not prevent others from his wrath and psychotic behavior.

Killian put his book aside and wrapped his arms around Emma’s ankles, pulling her closer to him on the couch.

“This again?”

She sat up and leveled her eyes with him.

“I know you don’t like to talk about it but it has to bother you as much as it bothers me. What happened to try and prove his guilt?”

“I found things that are more important.” His hand brushed over her cheek, the warmth of his hand conveying tenderness along Emma’s skin.

She leaned into his touch, the sudden emotion creeping up her throat. It wasn’t unusual for him to express affection, show how much he cared for her but it still affected her. She wasn’t used to being that adored. And then there was something else.

She hadn’t said _I love you_ yet.

She wanted to say _I love you_ almost every moment she spent with him. But it got stuck on the tip of her tongue every single time.

“I get that but what if he sends his minion to hurt you again? Or other people. What if he goes for Anna or Elsa? I just don’t like that he’s out there, Killian.”

He sighed while averting his eyes from her, placing his chin on her knees. He had to know she was right. She was also pretty certain he felt the same way. His good form was ingrained into him, a crucial part of who he was. He’d want to do the right thing.

Emma placed her hand on his cheek and gently turned his face to her again. In a sad way, her lips curled.

They had to do the right thing.

“What do you want to do?” he asked, the sadness reaching him too.

“Maybe try taking another route? A more legal one this time?” She cocked her head in suggestion.

“We would have to find someone to help us legally, but Gold has people everywhere. They cannot be one of Gold's puppets.”

“I might know someone.”

Might was a wrong word. She knew the perfect someone.

-/-

“Did you ever tell me he went to law school?”

An ambulance raced passed them as they walked on the street, synchronized steps sounding against the concrete. It wasn’t far, only two blocks, but Killian had still grabbed her hand to walk the way.

Emma swung their linked hands.

“I might’ve? I don’t remember.” She shrugged. She’d never thought Samir being a lawyer would be something she’d need but here they were: on their way to his shop.

“And he works in a shop?”

Emma checked the street for incoming cars before quickly crossing and pulling Killian along.

“It’s his dad’s,” she explained. “There’s a whole story behind it, I’m sure.”

“Well, I believe you.”

“Why thank you, Jones, for that assurance.”

He winked in response, eliciting a smile on Emma’s face.

The shop appeared from behind the corner and she smiled. It had been a while since she’d seen Samir, fewer midnight snacks and drinks that needed to be bought recently. Maybe his theory about being a _not so_ happy single was correct.

This was also the first time Samir and Killian would meet and she was looking forward to it. Her favorite people in this city had to meet at some point, and even if this visit wasn’t just for pleasure, it still meant something.

The door opened, the bell rang and they were inside.

The store was empty but not for long as Samir emerged from the back, a pack of what looked like cereal in his hands and blocked his view.

“I’ll be right with you!”

“Take your time, Samir,” she reassured.

As he walked to the cereal rack, back facing them, Samir spoke again: “Is that my favorite customer I hear?”

She laughed.

“It might be.”

“I hope it’s her. My sales have been suffering since she decided to disappear more and more,” Samir replied, still not turned to them.

Emma and Killian looked at each other, both raising their eyebrows with a smile.

Finally, Samir finished putting the boxes away and approached them, a smile directed towards Emma and a curious glance towards Killian and their entwined hands.

“Hi,” she finally greeted her friend properly.

“Hello,” he replied.

Killian patiently waited in silence until Emma introduced the two of them to each other.

“Samir, this is Killian,” she began. “Killian, this is Samir.”

“Nice to meet you, mate.” Killian released her hand and reached for Samir’s outstretched one, the men sharing a quick but genuine shake. “Emma has told me a lot about you.”

“You too, mate.” He nodded. “What brings you to my humble shop?”

Emma took a step forwards.

“Remember when we first talked and I told you that if I ever needed a lawyer, I’d call you?” She gave him a second to recall the memory before she continued. “The moment has come.”

Samir did not seem surprised or taken aback at all. Instead, a fire lit up his dark brown eyes as something Emma couldn’t describe as anything other than determination appeared.

“You’re taking him down?” he asked, looking at the both of them for an answer.

She sought Killian’s eyes, wanted to be sure that they were both one hundred percent sure of the path they were going to go down. When she found them, Emma knew that this was what they were doing, even if it was the last thing they did.

“We are,” she replied, the same determination that could be found in Samir’s eyes now in her voice. “If you’re up for it.”

“Rocky Road.” Samir smiled. “I’d thought you’d never ask.”

-/-

They spent hours, days, weeks searching. Searching for the smallest lead or detail that was off.  Soon they realized it was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

And it was fucking frustrating.

How could Gold never once have made a misstep? How was that even possible? All humans make a mistake at some point, so why didn’t he?

Samir couldn’t do a lot if they had nothing to go off. He couldn’t think of a charge without proof, couldn’t magically make an accusation appear out of thin air.

Killian tried using the things he’d gathered before but the tidbits of information were mostly outdated and incorrect.

Emma… well she got more frustrated by the minute and wasn’t as useful to the investigation as her companions.

It was so unfair. On paper, this man was a saint.  Donations to nonprofits, he tipped fairly, he even recycled. You name it and The Honorable Mr. Gold had most likely done it.

Which, again, was fucking frustrating.

Emma grunted, throwing one of their folders on Killian’s coffee table. She let her head drop into her hands, momentarily sick of reading and reading, processing information without discovering anything valuable, anything useful for the case they were trying to build.

A case that was currently non-existent because of said shortage of information.

She sighed against her palms and closed her eyes. An empty nothing was better than going back to the file, with information being catapulted at her.

A headache was forming between her temples and so she stayed like that, hands half-buried in her hair and forehead leaning against her palms.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed her shoulder.

“Oh god!” She jumped and placed her hand over her heart as she saw who the culprit was. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Killian stood next to her with an apologetic grimace on his lips and a plastic bag in his hand.

“Apologies, love. I _did_ announce I was home,” he defended himself, not to take the blame off of himself but to tell her it wasn’t on purpose.

“It’s fine. It’s my fault, I wasn’t paying attention.” She got up and quickly kissed his mouth in way of greeting.

A delicious smell wafted upwards and reached her nose, making her stomach growl. She’d forgotten to eat. Again.

“You bought Chinese?”

He’d told her that he wasn’t the biggest fan of Chinese food and that he ate it maybe once every three years (and that was a broad estimate) So every time he came home with takeout, she knew he did it for her. Because she loved it almost as much as he didn’t like it. Because he’d thought of her while walking past the Chinese restaurant and wanted to make her happy.

She should really tell him she loved him.

“I was in the mood for some spring rolls,” Killian shrugged.

Emma wasn’t falling for his act and stepped back into his personal space, lips searching his again, this time for more than just a peck.

They broke apart, their chests heaving ever so slightly as they both came up for air.

“I should best put this on the table,” he said, his hand lifting the bag of Chinese food again.

_Tell him._

_Tell him._

_Emma, tell him._

“Killian?” she blurted out, her mouth acting before her mind could reconsider.

“Aye?” He turned to her with expectant eyes which definitely didn’t help with the stress that was tormenting her body right now.

Emma took a deep breath, thanks to their earlier tiny make out session, she could attribute her breathlessness to that and not to the source of her fast-beating heart and sweaty palms.

“I love you,” she said and she felt lighter instantaneously. “I thought you should know that.”

Killian left the Chinese food for what it was and strode towards her, only three big strides before he reached her, touched her, kissed her.

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him back, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I love you,” he echoed the words, whispered them against her slightly swollen lips. “I thought you should know that too.”

Laughter bubbled out of Emma with the complete happiness and tranquility she finally felt, and of that earlier frustration, there was nothing left.

-/-

“Honestly, I think it’s bollocks. He must’ve paid someone to clear his records. No one is this clean,” Samir mumbled through his full mouth of spaghetti.

Emma sipped from her glass of water and set it back down on the table before taking another bite of her own food.

Quite early on, they discovered that once the three of them—Emma, Killian, and Samir—got together to discuss their plans, it usually turned into just friends hanging out for a while as they all got along extremely well. Emma had honestly been afraid that her friend and her boyfriend wouldn’t get along at first but now, they sometimes got along too well. They had a serious bromance going on and she wouldn’t say she was jealous but she wouldn’t mind if they got along slightly less either. So they went from random meetings in the middle of the day to actual planned dinner evenings for a perfect mix of business and casual.

So that was why Samir was now stuffing his face with Killian’s divine spaghetti and commenting on how he thought the situation was bullshit.

Which Emma agreed with one hundred percent.

“I know, mate, but we have nothing else to go on,” Killian reacted.

“Have we covered all bases?” Samir asked again, but they had. “Youth? Career? Family? Anything we could’ve missed?”

Killian shook his dark locks in a negative answer.

“Milah told me he had no family to speak of so that’s a dead end.”

Emma froze, her eyes popping open as she dropped her fork on the table.

Gold’s brother.

“What did you say, Swan?” Killian frowned as Emma had apparently not only thought it but had actually spoken it out loud.

She cleared her throat before repeating what she had just come to realize. “Gold has a brother.”

“A brother?” Both Killian and Samir said in unison—there was that bromance she was speaking of.

She turned to Killian and grabbed a hold of his prosthetic.

“The guy that attacked the both of us, his name is Malcolm Gold.”

“How do you know that?” he asked.

She knew it because Malcolm’s ego got hurt and he wanted to boast about his powerful name to scare her even more.

"He told me. He might be lying but there is a similarity between the two that makes me think he was telling the truth and that they are brothers."

She got up, not waiting for any type of reaction from the both of them, not having the patience to wait for them to collect their thoughts on the information she’d just handed them.

Emma had already wasted enough time by not thinking of a lead she had had all along, from way before they had decided to try and take Gold down together. She didn’t have the time to be angry with herself right now, that would come later, now she needed to grab her computer as quickly possible.

Faster than ever before, she typed in her password and pulled up some of the online tools she’d often use while researching one of her cases. ‘Malcolm Gold’ she typed in and fervently asked Zeus, the universe, to give her this one thing, to give her something to work with.

“And?” Killian asked, still seated at the table, seemingly understanding what she was attempting to do.

She looked up from the bright computer screen and smirked at her team.

“It seems our dear Malcolm isn’t as good in hiding his tracks as his baby brother is.”

-/-

Malcolm Gold was, as Emma discovered, a man of many facets. One of them being an arsonist, another one of them being a notorious drug dealer who was the supplier of a variation of cocaine called Fairy Dust.

Not the most positive of reputations. And yet, somehow, he had spent a grand total of thirty-one hours in jail.

And there it was.

A lead.

After Emma’s discovery, it was all hands on deck; it was countless all-nighters with coffee as their only fuel. It was reading and more reading until their eyeballs went dry.

It took so much but they’d done it.

She was about ready to cry when Samir told her the news.

They had an airtight case. Gold was guilty of blackmail, extortion and the fabrication and distribution of narcotics.

And the son of a bitch was going to jail for it.

-/-

They stood in the parking lot of the courthouse, Emma and Killian leaning against Killian’s Toyota and talking in low voices in case someone overheard them. This was a big moment, something they’d worked towards for months, but Emma couldn’t stop shaking.

Months of work were depending on this. Innocent lives were depending on this. Her sanity in general was depending on this. So, it was safe to say that the stakes were pretty damn high.

From across the parking lot, she saw Samir appear, dressed in a dark suit that made him look way older than his young twenty-four years. She had total faith in him, however. He was relentless and thorough. And he was her friend.

“Hello,” he greeted them and they smiled in response.

“You’re sure you don’t want to come inside too?” Samir asked.

She looked at Killian and saw the exact same answer in his eyes. They didn’t want to face him again, not after all he had done and attempted to do. The man was a maniac and the less time they had to spend in his company, the better.

“No, Samir,” Killian said in her stead. Her hands weren’t the only thing that was shaking. “This is all you. We believe in you and we want to thank you for all that you’ve done for us. You’re a true friend.” He clasped his shoulder before going for a hug.

“What about you, Rocky Road?” Samir said as he turned to her. “Will you be alright?”

“Of course,” she finally spoke, managing the tiniest smile. “I trust you completely.” Emma looked him in the eye, reassured when she saw the embers burn in his eyes. “Go destroy him.”

Samir smiled at her and nodded sternly before giving her a hug as well. “For what he did to you,” he whispered as his arms were around her, “–gladly.”

Gold was not prepared for the fury he was about to meet.

“If it’s alright with you, mate, I’m taking Emma home,” Killian said and Emma looked at him in confusion. That wasn’t what they had planned.

Before she could question it, he silently grabbed her hand and squeezed and while she didn’t exactly fully understand what he was saying, she understood enough to not disagree. He really wanted to take her home, so she’d let him. There wasn’t a lot she could do on a courthouse parking lot, either way.

“Fine by me,” Samir replied, “I’ll call you with the verdict.”

Emma was curious about what Killian’s plans were once they got home but he simply took off his jacket as they entered the apartment, toed off his shoes, motioned her to take off her own and led her to the couch once she had. He settled into it and opened his arms to welcome her, an invitation she’d glady–always– accept.

For the time they lay on the couch, there was only Killian and nothing else. No sorrow or fear, only love and warmth. Her hands finally stopped trembling.

In the peace of the purest tranquility, she fell asleep surrounded by him. His heartbeat under her head, his scent in her nose, his legs tangled with hers.

It must’ve been hours later when she woke up, her body still glued to his but the light entering through the window completely different from when they had first gotten comfortable in the sofa. Cranking her eyes open, she looked up and found Killian looking at her with soft eyes, hand smoothing over some unruly blonde hair. He bowed his head and tenderly pressed his lips to her hair.

“We won.”

She sought his eyes and saw the honesty and contentment that lovely shade of blue emitted. Emma didn’t reply to his statement, not in words anyway. She just tightened her arms around him even more and kissed his collarbone before closing her eyes and feeling yet another kiss on her skin, this time on her forehead.

And at last, the mist of grey had lifted and left just the tiniest sparkle of brightness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. Our bbis get a happy ending and all was well. I'd like to thank you all for coming onto this ride with me and staying loyal fans as the fic progressed. I'd like to thank everyone who left a comment, a like, fun tags, a kudos. While writing the chapters, I sometimes thought "but what if no one likes this fic I've been working on for months", but the response has been incredible so thank you, thank you, thank you! I hope you enjoyed the ride and I hope you have a lovely 2019. Bye!

**Author's Note:**

> For the next couple of months, you can expect an update every Thursday! I hope you enjoyed!


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